


Drag Me To Hell

by LadyOrpheus



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Crossroads Deals & Demons, Demon AU, Demon!Len, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2018-07-14 01:38:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7146884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyOrpheus/pseuds/LadyOrpheus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“The gates of hell are open night and day;</em><br/><em>Smooth the descent, and easy is the way:</em><br/><em>But to return, and view the cheerful skies,</em><br/><em>In this the task and mighty labor lies.”</em><br/><em>—Virgil, 'Aeneid'</em><br/> </p><p>Desperate to free his father from prison, young Barry makes a life changing deal at the crossroads one night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, wow. I'm kind of hyperventilating about this one because this fic has been my brain child for a while now and I finally just had to bite the bullet and post some of it already!
> 
> Just the Prologue to start, but the first full chapter should be coming soon. I'm working on smoothing some of the transitions. 
> 
> Extra extra extra special thanks to [moonlightcoldflash](http://moonlightcoldflash.tumblr.com/) who so graciously agreed to beta. Also to [crimsondomingo](http://crimsondomingo.tumblr.com/) (also [Crimson1](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson1/pseuds/Crimson1)) who helped feed my muse when this story was only just an idea.

_On the outskirts of Keystone and Central, a respectable distance from any vulnerable residential areas, a yellow taxi cab idled in an otherwise empty parking lot. The oppressive silhouette of Iron Heights Prison loomed ahead. Night had long since fallen, the sky was turning blacker with each passing moment, and an evening chill was fogging up the windshield._

_The cabbie gripped the wheel in white knuckled hands. “Uh, you sure about this, kid?”_

_His passenger wasn’t precisely a kid, but he wasn’t quite a man either. He couldn’t possibly be younger than 14, he might be as old as 18, but he looked skinnier than he ought to be for that age. And the eyes...something in his eyes seemed older and younger all at once._

_“I don’t think there are shuttles this late. Or visiting hours.”_

_It wasn’t the driver’s first trip to Iron Heights, it probably wouldn’t be the last. The inmates didn’t scare him, they were all behind bars after all, but something intangible made the hair on the back of his neck prickle in a way it never had before. He’d been called many things in his life--drunk, lazy, fool--but never ‘coward’. Still, a touch of fear raced through him that whispered, “Run.” Half of his gut insisted he take the boy with him, whisk him away from whatever the source of this discomfort was. The other half wrestled with the inexplicable feeling that the boy_ **was** _the source. No matter how pleasant and polite he’d been on the drive over._

_Before the cabbie could make up his mind, however, the boy was moving. He forked over a small stack of bills--all fives and ones but more than enough to cover the fare--and slid out the door. Its slam jarred the man into action._

_“Hey!” He called out the passenger side window as he cranked it down. “You want me to wait? Take you somewhere else?”_

_The kid smiled in a way that looked far too practiced, like he had long since grown used to faking it. The cabbie couldn’t tell if it was masking anger, sadness, or both. “Thanks, but I’m fine. My dad’s on the second shift. He’ll be finishing up soon.” That, too, seemed overly practiced, but parts of it still rang true. True enough that the cabbie couldn’t think of a solid objection._

_He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. A bright green 10:54 PM flashed back at him. End of shift was still six minutes away. A lot could happen in six minutes. To a kid. Alone. At night._

_Sensing the driver’s hesitation, the boy smiled again and waved a dismissive hand. “Really, it’s fine. The guards know me here. I can just follow the road to the gate.” He jerked his thumb towards the narrow road that wound up the hill to the prison. The taxi wouldn’t be allowed up there, transfer and shuttle buses only. Before the cabbie could protest, the kid started off down the pavement without so much as a backwards glance, apparently more than sure of his way._

_The driver sighed and tugged at the brim of his Diamonds cap. Leaving the kid didn’t sit well in his stomach, but what was he supposed to do? Throw him in the back and lock the door? Kidnap him? He’d end up in Iron Heights himself. Still, he watched the kid as long as he could, until the reflective piping on his jacket disappeared around a bend and out of the cabbie’s line of sight. For a moment he twitched forwards with half a mind to follow him up before the wind picked up and tore across the landscape with a low moan. The breeze was strong, but it wasn’t the weather making his hair stand on end. The air was cool, but it wasn’t the temperature making him shiver. Just this once, the driver let cowardice get the better of his curiosity._

_He peeled out of the parking lot as fast as vehicularly possible._

_Less than an hour later and he sunk into a well-worn leather armchair, safe within the plaster walls of his studio apartment. Neither the game on the TV nor the cold beer in his hand did anything to untangle the lingering knot in his stomach. He fell into a restless sleep in that same chair, his dreams filled with shadowy figures, ageless eyes, and a young boy holding his hands to the fire._

_When he woke the next morning he scoured the news for any signs: a high profile IA investigation at the CCPD, a pile up on the nearest thruway exit, but no mention of anything untoward at Iron Heights and no missing kid. The knot loosened just a hair. That didn’t stop him from checking the news every morning that week. There were some arrests, petty crime, still no news featuring the scrawny kid who occupied his back seat that night._

_Eventually the knot in his gut disappeared entirely. Clearly it had all been a passing fit of fancy, an overactive imagination. He resolved to forget the whole affair and slept easily for the first time in days, suppressing that lingering trickle of curiosity._

_Which was just as well. If he’d indulged his curiosity that night, if he’d listened to the other half of his gut and followed the boy up the prison road, he might have seen him wander off the path, down a small slope, and into a swath of bushes and trees. He might have tailed the kid for another two miles to the crossing of a couple old farm roads that had fallen into disuse. He might have watched the kid crouch down in the dirt, bury something there. He might have seen a figure appear, melting out of the shadows. He might have watched as the boy shook its hand. Heard a rumbling voice--too deep to be the kid’s--say, “It’s a deal.”_

_He might have seen the figure’s eye glow blood red and he might never have slept easily again._


	2. Impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear." - C.S. Lewis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh!!! Okay the first half of this was still beta read by the lovely [moonlightcoldflash](http://moonlightcoldflash.tumblr.com) but in my rush to post this the second half was not. So all the terrible typos are totally on me.

When Barry Allen turned 8 his parents took him to the Central City Science Museum.

It was love at first sight. Barry quickly proclaimed it the “Best Birthday Ever!” even though he could still count the number of birthdays he even remembered on one hand. He crawled through the life size model of a blue whale, gazed in astonishment at the ceiling of the planetarium, and giggled as he waved his hands across the surface of an enormous plasma globe that licked at his fingers with streaks of purple-ish lightning. Barry listened with rapt attention as his father named each of the bones in the human body and pointed them out on the plaster skeleton the museum let kids position (even if nine times out of ten they just wanted to make the skeleton pick its own nose.) Barry walked away from his birthday adventure with a newfound scientific curiosity and a high powered telescope from the gift shop.

When Barry Allen turned 9 his parents surprised him with breakfast in bed. 

His father made fluffy, golden pancakes as big as big as Barry’s face and his mother handed him gifts in between syrupy bites, everything from small trinkets meant to make him giggle to the new chemistry set he’d been eyeing for months. They let him skip school and spent all day at a nearby park, relishing in the March weather that wasn’t quite warm, but carried the promise of Spring.

When Barry Allen turned 10 his parents surprised him, not with pancakes and presents, but a trip down south to the sandy beaches around the Gulf. 

They spent a long weekend splashing in the surf, getting sand in uncomfortable places, and consuming enough fried dough and ice cream for a small army. The sunburns that persisted, even in the face of enormous slatherings of SPF 50, did little to dull their spirits. Indeed, Henry Allen teased his wife and son, their particular shade of lobster red made their pearly white smiles look all the brighter.

When Barry Allen turned 11 he woke, not to pancakes and presents or to trips and adventures.

He opened his eyes and for a moment was surprised to discover that the ceiling above his head was not his own. The constellations of glow-in-the-dark stars he and his mother had painstakingly mapped out were missing as was the soft glow from the fish tank by the door. It was late, the light from the afternoon sun signaled it was closer to dinner than lunch. Which was odd. They were supposed to be having pizza and cake at noon. 

And then Barry remembered the night before. He remembered his mother in a whirlwind of yellow and red. He remembered his father in handcuffs. He remembered Joe’s hand on his shoulder, restraining and comforting all at once. He remembered, although he shut his eyes and tried to pretend that he didn’t, to pretend that these images would fade like the memories of a nightmare. When they didn’t, tears began to leak from behind his tightly clamped eyelids. He pulled the blankets back up over his head.

When Barry Allen turned 11, he did not get out of bed at all.

When Barry Allen turned 12, and then 13 and 14 he had only one rule: no one was allowed to wish him a happy birthday.

There was no happiness to be found on such a grim anniversary. He would not let Joe get a cake nor would he accept any presents Iris tried to give. There were to be no foolish wishes on candles, no parties or even a special dinner to mark the occasion. His birthday and the day before, Barry simply locked himself in his room. Even when the days fell during the week, he didn’t need to cough or groan about an upset stomach, neither Joe nor the school had the heart to press the issue.

Exactly one, and one person only was the exception to Barry’s rule. But then, Henry Allen was in prison, and Barry figured his father could use as many small happinesses as he could get.

Rain or shine, standard visiting days or not, every year Barry spent the day before his birthday face to face with his father, a hand resting longingly on the glass partition. They spoke of Barry’s mother, remembered her--as if the cruel world would ever let them forget--until one or both of them was crying too hard to speak.

“Hey, now.” Henry always said, wiping away his tears with a lopsided smile. “Your mother wouldn’t want me dragging you down before the big day. Happy early Birthday, Barry.”

And every time Barry tried to return the smile, though he had a feeling it came out watery and empty because Henry’s answer was always some variation of the same. 

“Now I need you to promise me something, okay slugger? Promise me you’ll find some joy tomorrow. I know today is going to be tough, that it’s tough every year. And sometimes it brings a cloud that you think will never go away. Trust me, I know. But if the sun’s not shining--”

“Be your own light.” Barry would finish. His mother used to say the words so often it felt like they were branded on his very soul.

“And you, Barry. Your light is so bright. And the day you were born, you brought so much joy into our lives. Mine and your mother’s.” At this point one or both of them was usually crying once again. “I just want the same joy for you. And your mother would, too.”

Barry would nod and try to smile wide enough to crinkle his tear-fogged eyes, but he always left with a pit in his stomach. How? He would think to himself. Joy felt like an impossible feat and his light felt no brighter than the speck from a lit match. Then Joe would drive Barry back to the house where he could finally grieve in peace.

The pattern continued for years: painful remembrance, solitary grief, and no joy to speak of.

The day before Barry Allen turned 15, everything changed.

\--------

 

**The outskirts of Central City--March 18th, 2005--11:00 PM**

Fourteen year old Barry Allen paced at the intersection of two nameless dirt roads. Miles away, where the cab had dropped him off an hour ago, the third guard shift was just beginning at Iron Heights. The lights of Central City that twinkled on the horizon looked as distant as the stars. It was the closest location he could find that fit the bill. Barry shivered and chewed at his wind-chapped lips, but kept pacing.

He ought to head home, his conscience told him. Joe and Iris would be expecting him. They were probably already worried sick. Anyways the whole idea was ridiculous, foolish, insane. Barry liked science, facts; what he hoped to accomplish here was far beyond even Barry’s notion of unbelievable, there was no wild, scientific explanation. It was all a fantasy. Impossible.

 _But_ , that traitorous sliver of hope in the back of his mind chimed, Barry had seen the impossible for himself. Four years ago on that fateful night. If the man in the lightning was possible, then maybe…

Barry steeled himself, committed, and started to count his steps. Carefully, he paced out the exact center of the crossroad, stepping heel to toe as straight as he could manage. He had to guess a little bit--dirt and gravel didn’t make for the most defined boundary between road and grass--but eventually he was able to eyeball the best spot and, with his bare hands, he started to dig. 

\-----------------

 

**Iron Height Prison--March 18th, 2005--7:30 AM**

“I’m sorry,” the corrections officer replied, “it’s not permitted.”

In the officer’s defense, he did appear to be sincerely apologetic, but to Barry, it felt like a punch to the gut all the same. He tried his best to keep his voice calm and steady. He largely failed, “W-what do you mean ‘not permitted.’ I know it’s not regular visiting hours, but the warden-- I’m on the list! I’ve _been_ on the list since day one! I always--that is--”

“Sorry, kid. I know the warden’s got a special arrangement for you, but there are-uh-” he nervously shuffled a stack of papers on his desk, “extenuating circumstances.”

Barry fought to suppress angry tears as his stinging, frantic eyes sought Joe. His foster father was at his side in an instant.

“What seems to be the problem, Officer…?”

“Geary.” Officer Geary shifted nervously again. “I--uh--I really shouldn’t say.” He quickly glanced at Barry--who crossed his arms over his chest in a motion that was both stubborn and self-soothing-- and then back at Joe.

Joe drew as close to the desk as the partition would allow and lowered his voice. As if Barry wasn’t standing right next to him, close enough to hear every word. “Officer Geary, do you see this kid? He’s a good kid, no a great kid. Tomorrow is his birthday, okay? _Today_ is the anniversary of his mother’s murder”

Barry flushed. With embarrassment, with anger. No, that wasn’t allowed. Joe wasn’t supposed to mention any of _that_. He tugged on his foster father’s arm and hissed, “ _Joe--_ ”

But Joe pressed on. “He’s going to be fifteen. A young man. A young man who would like to see his father for both a very happy and very sad day. Cut the kid some slack.”

If Geary was apologetic before he looked downright guilty after Joe was through with him. Nevertheless he grimaced and responded. “Again, I’m sorry. Really, I am. But it’s just not possible right now.”

Joe sighed and ran one broad hand across his own face. His features sagged as the usually did without a strong cup of coffee to prop them up. “Alright, look. I understand. You’re just doing your job. But please, don’t leave us in the dark here. What’s going on? One man of the law to another. Lock-down? A riot? We can wait it out.”

Geary gnawed on his lower lip and hesitated. It felt like eons. Barry counted the breaths (seven) until the CO finally spoke again. “There was a--uh--an _incident_ ,” he was very careful not to say riot, “in the yard yesterday. Gen Pop is on lock-down for 24 hours.”

Barry perked up and pushed his way closer to the sign-in desk. “24 hours? But if it happened yesterday, that means it’ll be over sometime today, right? What time? I can wait.”

The officer shook his head. “It’s not that simple. Your uh--” he glanced down, seemed unable to look Barry or Joe in the eye. “Henry Allen was one of the prisoners injured in the fight. Visitors aren’t permitted because he’s in the infirmary.”

The edges of Barry’s vision went black.

\-----------

He didn’t remember fainting, but he didn’t remember walking either. Regardless, the next thing Barry knew he was in the car only vaguely aware that Joe was beside him, gently calling his name and speaking in low, soothing tones. 

Barry felt like the world was too quiet and too loud all at once. He couldn’t make out what Joe was saying, but he could hear the deafening creak of the armrest as Barry clenched it so tight that he could trace the the protruding veins in his hand. All the windows were rolled down, the passenger side door was wide open, but that didn’t stop Barry’s breath from shortening into small wheezes as though the air was being crowded out.

The world started to slip back into focus, but its edges were still hazy. When his breathing steadied and the fog began to clear, Barry was finally able see beyond the confines of the car. “W-we’re back at the house?”

“Yeah, kiddo.” Joe said softly. He was crouched just outside the passenger side door. “You were out of it for a long while. I almost brought you to the ER instead. You had me worried there. But,” he continued as he stood and held the car door open wider for Barry, “I thought you might prefer home to the hospital.”

The panic bubbled in the back of Barry’s throat again. “No!” His hands flew to the door handle. 

Joe blinked. If he was startled by Barry’s outburst he did a good job of hiding it. “You...want to go to the hospital?”

“No!” Barry yelled again between shallow, shaky breaths. “I don’t want to go in! I don’t need a doctor, I need to see my dad!”

Childishly, he wrested control of the door from Joe, slammed it shut, and locked it. Nevermind that the window was still all the way down and the keys were dangling in Joe’s hand.

They jingled as Joe closed his fist around them and sighed, “Barr, you know that’s not an option.”

Logically, Barry knew exactly that, but it didn’t stop angry tears from pooling at the corners of his eyes again, nor did it stop him from insisting, “We have to go back. Please. _Please_. We _have_ to. I need-- He’s gonna--” the rest of his words were swallowed by gasps.

Joe clicked the lock and opened the door once more. “Hey, now. It’s okay. It’s okay, Barry.” He placed a steadying hand on Barry’s shoulder. “Your dad is going to be _fine_. They’ve got protocol for these kinda things. You know if it was serious they’d transfer him to the hospital. Right now he’s just recovering in the infirmary.” 

Barry shook his head. “Maybe this time. But how long until it happens again? How long until it’s not just the infirmary? How long until--” Barry swallowed his next words. He didn’t dare speak them aloud. As if giving them sound would somehow turn them into prophecy. “My dad doesn’t belong in prison. He needs to get out.”

It was a statement Barry had made many times before. Joe’s response was one Barry had seen many times before. The man sighed a long, heavy sigh. Sighed even more as he said, “Barry--”

But Barry didn’t want to hear it. Not again. “You don’t believe me.” He snapped. “You’ve never believed me.”

Joe, to his credit, tried again. “Look, son, I know you’re upset. But we’re home now. Why don’t we--”

Changing course suddenly, Barry vaulted out of his seat. “This isn’t my home. And I’m not your son!” He regretted the words almost as soon as he’d said them, but the way Joe recoiled gave Barry enough room to push past Joe and the open car door. He dashed across the lawn and flung himself through the front door, leaving it swinging on its hinges. He ignored Iris’ calls from the living room, and thundered up the stairs flinging himself through his bedroom door with just as much force and fury. 

Only then, once he’d locked the door behind him, did Barry finally stop. He leaned back against the door, crumpled to the ground, and finally began to cry. 

\----------

What could have been minutes, could have been hours later, Iris knocked on the door. Nevermind the sanctity of Barry’s usual mourning period, Iris West was an intelligent girl; she knew something beyond the usual was wrong. Somewhere in the depths of his consciousness, Barry appreciated this, was grateful to know that she loved him in her own way, but it didn’t make him any more likely to open the door. 

She knocked thrice more and still Barry did not budge. She got halfway through another set of knocks before Joe’s muffled murmur drifted through the hall. “Let him be, Iris.”

“But--” she started to protest.

“Not now. Give it time.” If he’d had the energy Barry might have scoffed. Time had never done anything to heal these wounds. 

Barry heard Iris hesitate. He held his breath. He wasn’t sure what would be worse: Iris deciding to leave or Iris deciding to stay. But eventually the choice was taken from both of them.

“Come on, baby. You’re already late for school.”

She lingered for a moment, but eventually shuffled off. Barry breathed a sigh of bitter relief, tinged with salt water. He figured that was that. He and his sorrows were alone at last, but then her soft footsteps returned.

“Barr?” She whispered softly. “You don’t have to open the door, but I just wanted to give you something.”

And Barry almost opened his mouth. Almost broke the silence to shout that presents were most certainly not allowed. Not today.

But before he could Iris was already speaking again, “Now before you get angry,” she knew him too well, “I didn’t even pay for it. Some lady was just giving them away so it’s not a present. It doesn’t count. It’s just...well...I thought you might like something to distract you from, you know--anyways, I’ll just leave it outside the door, okay?”

Barry heard the rustle of a bag. Then Joe called Iris’ name once more. He listened as her footsteps echoed down the stairs and the front door clicked behind her.

Barry stubbornly told himself that, free or not, he was not accepting Iris’ thinly veiled birthday present. He wasn’t even leaving the room. But his bladder had other ideas. Around noon he was forced to slip down the hall for the bathroom. As he returned, he spied the bag Iris had set down. It was a simple brown paper shopping bag, slightly torn in a few spots, that was bulging with an assortment of what looked like used books. Exactly the sort of thing that Barry would normally enjoy.

Still Barry did not bring them into the room. It wasn’t until a couple hours later after his mind wandered down a particularly panic inducing cycle of thought that he relented and went back to the hall for the books. Anything at all to distract him from the crippling worry and despair haunting every second.

He sat himself criss-cross on the floor beside the bag and began idly perusing through the books. It was an eclectic collection. There were novels of various genres: sci-fi, fantasy, classics, adventures. There were nonfiction books: biographies and histories. A book of Robert Frost poetry. There was even a colorful, illustrated children’s book titled “The Snowy Day.”

And at the very bottom of the bag there was a thick, black, leather-bound book with no title at all. 

Intrigued, Barry set the other books aside in a pile and hoisted the rather heavy book into his lap.

The simple, unmarked cover was worn around the edges but still fairly new. The pages inside, however, were yellowed with age. Barry reckoned it had been rebound within the last decade or two. The was no title page, nothing written on the spine, no author, no identifying marks whatsoever. What looked like a dedication page contained only one small line of text in an elegant font:

“Hell is empty and all the devils are here…”

Intrigued, Barry turned the page. He expected to find the start of a chapter, a poem, almost anything else, but instead the next page most closely resembled an encyclopedia. The first entry on the page was labeled ‘Acheri’, the last ‘Arachne’.

He blinked, surprised, and skimmed a brief snippet “...from the Ancient Greek weaver of the same name, an Arachne possesses the features of both human and spider. It’s poisonous bite…” Perhaps even more surprising were the _notes_. The words Barry was reading were surely fantasy, but someone--someone with impeccably tidy penmanship--had carefully annotated the margins. Next to Arachne were the words “Decapitation only.”

Barry flipped through a few more pages. Not a one was left blank. Each page had been carefully underlined and reviewed with all the care one normally took with a textbook. But...this wasn’t a textbook, right? There were more entries: alicorns, basilisks, cherubim. All mythical, but all notated and treated like fact.

Beside the entry for “changelings”, the previous owner had written a small spell labelled simply “fire x3” the words were nonsensical, impossible to pronounce. Barry tested the words on his tongue. He was embarrassed to find that he was disappointed when nothing around him burst into flames. But then he looked at the note again. “x3...”. Three times? Barry shrugged. If it was truly nonsense, what would it hurt? He said it twice more.

The pile of books beside him burst into flames.

Barry yelped and sprang to his feet. He searched for something to extinguish or smother the flames, but then the flames abruptly vanished leaving nothing more than a pile of ash. 

Barry swallowed, his mouth suddenly bone dry.

The rational part of his brain said, “Coincidence. Spontaneous combustion.”

The rest of his brain screamed, “This is it. This is the answer. The missing piece. The impossible does exist.”

His breathing turned shallow, but from excitement not panic. He picked up the book again, _carefully_. Like it was something precious and like it too might combust at any moment.

He surveyed each passage with more attention this time, taking care to read each and every note in the margin. All the while searching for any mention. “Lightning, lightning, lightning.” He began muttering under his breath without realizing.

It seemed most creatures in the book were harmed by forms of intense light. “Crocattas” could move impossibly fast, “Death Echoes (see also entry 'Ghosts')” were known to disappear in a flash of light, but nothing quite fit.

Barry was so absorbed in the search he nearly missed it. There, a subset of “Demon”. He skimmed over the entry and then stopped, his eyes catching on the set of words “...can grant any wish in exchange…”

This entry in particular had a copious amount of notes. The writing was small and cramped, trying to squeeze everything into the margin. Words were circled, underlined, and crossed out. Barry read them all, his pulse quickening at the mere thought.

He read the entry again. And again. And again. The idea rolled around and around his head for over an hour. It seemed too good to be true, impossible. But then his eyes drifted back to the ashes that were once books. He read the passage and notes again. Could it really…?

He glanced at the clock. Not even 2:00 PM. Joe and Iris wouldn’t expect him to emerge from his room. Not until tomorrow at the earliest. If he kept the door locked, slipped out the window, maybe…

Barry laughed, thrilled, hysterical. Was he really going to do this? 

There was so much to do. Research to be done, items to fine. He’d need an old map. Probably a taxi to get him where he needed to go...but yes. Oh, god forgive him, yes. He really, really was.

He wasn't wholly naive. He’d read the entry beginning to end at least a couple dozen times now. He knew there’d be a price. But he thought of his father. Thought of him lying in a prison cell. Thought of the matching grave Henry Allen might have beside his wife and decided.

His soul would be such a small price to pay.  
...

**The outskirts of Central City--March 18th, 2005--11:05 PM**

When Barry at last managed to form a sizable hole, even in the semi-frozen ground, he removed a plastic bag from the inside of his jacket with shaking fingers. The contents of the bag were unlike what most teenage boys took to smuggling away inside their coats: yarrow, graveyard dirt, bones from a black cat, an empty coffee can that still smelled faintly of grounds, and a photo of himself he’d swiped from a framed collage atop the Wests’ mantle. 

Slowly, carefully, his fingers stinging from the cold, he placed each of the smaller items inside the coffee can, sealed it, and buried the container, packing the dirt into a small mound.

At last he brushed the dirt from his hands the best he could and stepped back. Nothing yet. Although Barry wasn’t sure how long it was supposed to take. He waited. And waited. Stuffed his frozen hands into his pockets and waited some more. 

Every time his head insisted that it hadn’t worked--of course it hadn’t, magic isn’t _real_ \--his heart insisted he could wait just a little bit longer--one minute more, no one more minute, another.

With each minute, however, his heart sank lower and lower until it felt as if it too had been buried beneath the ground. 

Barry had no watch, but he figured it was nearing midnight. Long past time to start what would surely be a long walk home. He sighed, forced himself to turn away from the crossroads, and start the long walk back towards Iron Heights and the only road back towards civilization.

And then just as he started walking he spun around again as a low, smooth voice called out from the tree line behind him, “Careful kid, you’ll catch your death out here.”


	3. Deal with the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"It is hard to contend against one's heart's desires; for whatever it wishes to have it buys at the cost of one's soul." -Heraclitus_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhhh I know. I'm the absolute WORST. This chapter took FOREVER. I was so obssessed with getting the dialogue right. Eventually I decided I just needed to rip off the band-aid and post it already. As such, this chapter has NOT been beta-read. There are probably a zillion and a half typos. All on me, guys!

**Central City--March 18th, 2005--11:05 PM**

The demon known as Cold took a long drink from a dusty bottle and wrinkled his nose at the taste. Only the finest piss at the good ol’ _Saints and Sinners_.

But the lackluster drafts were inconsequential; the thirst rising inside of him would not be slaked by cheap beer.

From his perch in a distant, shadowy booth Cold surveyed the crowd of his usual hunting ground: bartenders with wistful dreams, drunks eager for some truth to their boasts, desperate men spending their last penny or drowning impossibly large sorrows. 

_Too easy._ He thought with a sneer. Low hanging fruit, but fruit all the same.

In the opposite corner of the dimly lit bar, the previous night’s target was doling out rounds like there was no tomorrow, toasting with all the patrons to his good fortune: an overnight windfall.

 _Money_. A predictable, boring request.

Cold watched as the middle aged man brandished a bottle of absurdly expensive bourbon. As top shelf as a man could get in such a dive. The man’s rather substantial beer gut was pressing into the bar counter as he ordered another round and said loudly, “Just put it on my tab. Afterall, I’m good for it now!” All around the bar, glasses were raised in cheers and thanks.

In his faraway corner, Cold too lifted his drink though he didn’t take a sip. _That’s right,_ he thought. _Enjoy it while you can._

As if the words had been spoken aloud, the man at the bar turned and suddenly spotted Cold, hidden though he was. His lopsided smile abruptly drooped. Cold merely tipped his bottle in the man’s direction and winked. The man’s once ruddy face paled and Cold chuckled.

The tickle of a summons tugged at his presence, but Cold pushed it aside. He did have a debt to collect, but short, fat, and mediocre - who quickly turned to aggressively flirt with the poor bartender - would be safe for another 9 years, 11 months, and 29 days.

His true target was in the next booth over, halfway to the bottom of a bottle of top shelf whisky. His grey hair was disheveled, but not greasy. His clothes were plain, but expensive and well-tailored. The average observer would never guess the sixty-five year old sequestered in the corner of Saints and Sinners had a net value close to 500 million dollars. 

But Cold knew. 

_Money._ A predictable, boring request.

He watched as the old man took a long pull straight from the bottle, ignoring the low ball glass in front of him. The alcohol had done little to ease the man’s nerves, however. His glance kept darting about the dim room, he continuously twitched atop his cheap, vinyl seat.

Swiftly and silently, Cold stood, glided over to the adjacent table, and slid into the opposite side of the booth. The man gave a full bodied flinch, but then sighed in resignation.

His clothes might have been tailored and pristine, but his accent wasn’t. “Now you don’ look like the other fella, but I reckon yer the taxman cometh all the same, am I right?”

Cold nodded and drummed his fingers on the table. “Let’s just say I… _inherited_ the contract from my predecessor.”

The old man snorted incredulously, but continued to sip as if Cold wasn’t present. “An’ I take it yer the fella responsible for Mr. High n’ Mighty over there,” he said as he took another long swallow and shrugged in the general direction of the bar.

Sure enough, beer-gut’s girth was once again creeping up on the hardwood surface as he leaned towards and leered at the young blond manning the taps. Cold couldn’t hear the exact words, but he could guess the nature of the conversation based on the girl’s forced smile and barely concealed eye roll as she soundly shook her head.

The old man snorted. “Firs’ in a long line o’ lesson that fool ain’t ever gonna learn: money can’t buy everything. I should know.” He took another long drink.

The demon raised an eyebrow. “A little late for regrets, don’t you think?”

The old man shrugged once more. “Mayhaps. Don’t suppose you’d let an old man finish his drink first?”

After a thoughtful pause, Cold motioned for him to continue. The summons could wait a few moments more.

The old man chuckled bitterly. “Decent of you.” He drank again, more slowly, savoring the last few precious minutes of his predictable, boring life.

“Tell me,” the old man said when there was barely a mouthful left in the bottom of the bottle. His words were noticeably slurred. “Wha’ happens after?”

Cold raised another eyebrow and answered cooly, “I assume you don’t want me to describe the fiery pits in vivid detail.”

The old man shuddered. “No, no. Th’ money. Th’ fund. Allofit. Will it still--? M-m-my daughter. Will she be ableta--?”

Cold nodded. “It’s not leprechaun gold, Mr. Aldman,” he drawled. “It doesn’t disappear.” He eyed the clock on the wall as he felt the tug of the summons once more. 11:24 PM. “It’s redistribution is beyond my purview, but if you’ve put your affairs in order, everything will be allocated appropriately.”

The man nodded and finally downed the last drop of whisky. He produced a large stack of bills--easily ten times what the already expensive bottle was worth--and tucked it beneath the unused glass. “Jus’ do me one mo’ thing.” He stumbled out of the booth.

Cold rose close behind him. “You’re not exactly in a position to be making demands.”

“I know, I know. Jus’... make it clean. Please. I’ seen those brutes lurking. I don’t wan’--I don’ want my daughter to find--”

Cold nodded stiffly. He wasn’t an unreasonable demon. After all, as long as he was paid his due…

“Deal,” he said.

The word was spoken. A bargain made. The power to do what was necessary tingled like menthol beneath his skin. Before the old man had a chance to respond, Cold leaned forward and pressed one, perfunctory kiss squarely on his lips.

Seconds later, the old man crumpled to the ground, dead before he’d even hit the floor.

It took a few moments for the rest of the patrons to notice through the dimness of the bar and their own hazes of alcohol. Before the chaos erupted, Cold was already gone. As he slipped out the back door into the dark alley beyond, he heard the first shouts--”Call an ambulance!” “I think he’s had a heart attack!”--before the door swung shut behind him.

Cold was greeted in the dark, narrow alley by the brisk, cool air. He inhaled deeply. Though he didn’t technically require breath, the sensation was pleasant. He relished in the tingle of the breath and the new surge of power that came with another gathered soul. 

He took pleasure in the nice clean capture, too. No one would question the death of a senior citizen who saw fit to down an entire bottle of whisky in a single sitting. Everything was in order. Neat. Tidy.

His reverie was interrupted, however, by a low, thundering growl. A great, black dog emerged from behind the nearest dumpster. Cold simply rolled his eyes.

“Come off it, Mick. You can’t maul them all.”

In the span of a second, the humongous dog transformed into an equally humongous man with blistering scars all down his right side. Cold didn’t know if Mick got the scars before or after he became a hellhound. 

The hellhound grunted. “I want one with some fight.”

If demons had friends, Cold might have considered Mick his closest. But demons only had enemies, although that didn’t adequately describe the two of them either. 

Cold had never been fond of Mick’s rashness. He might have the best catch rate of all the hellhounds, but Mick also almost always left a mess in his wake, attracted too much human attention. Nor was Cold fond of the stench that Mick wore like a cloak: a rank combination of smoke, tobacco, and the rotten-egg of sulphur. Differences and stench aside, Cold could always be certain that Mick would do what needed to be done. Even if Cold was less than pleased with Mick’s methods and even if Cold sometimes had to resist the urge to toss Mick back into the depths of hell himself.

Mick snarled and his face, though still humanoid, transformed into something decidedly feral and canine. “It’s getting boring.” A bored Mick boded badly for humans and demons alike.

“Trust me,” Cold drawled, “I know. But we might both be in luck.” He allowed the summons he sensed before to come to the forefront of his consciousness. “Just got a call, out near Iron Heights.”

Mick grunted again. “The usual spot?” Cold nodded. “How come Raider hasn’t snatched it up yet?”

A soft chuckle escaped Cold’s lips. “Lazy bastard got his ass thrown in Purgatory. Couldn’t seal a deal if it hit him in the face.” 

Mick’s responding facial expression could have been a smile or it could have been a growl. It was difficult to tell. “The usual bet?” 

Cold nodded. “Let’s see if this one proves interesting.” A second later and Cold had vanished without a trace.

Later, Cold would regret not minding the old adage he so often mocked his targets with: be careful what you wish for. _Interesting_ didn’t even begin to cover it. 

\----------

**The outskirt of Central City--March 18th, 2005--11:39 PM**

The boy Cold found waiting at the crossroads was young. Younger than Cold was expecting. Still. Not the youngest he’d ever worked with. The kid was already nervous, though. He was continuously twitching and fidgeting. Extra care would be needed to reel this one in. So for a few moments Cold did nothing but observe. He hid himself in the shadows of the trees and watched as the boy paced.

The kid kept glancing back towards Iron Heights, though the structure itself wasn’t visible this far into the woods. The action in and of itself was not odd; plenty of folks far older than this teenage punk would be uncomfortable so near to the dangerous criminals housed within. However, that didn’t appear to be the case for this boy.

Indeed it seemed the opposite was true. Each time the kid’s nerves threatened to get the better of him he would turn back towards the prison and pause. Then something along the lines of desperate determination would settle over his features and he’d resume pacing once more.

Though he couldn’t quite place it, the act was oddly familiar.

Curious. Cold thought to himself. Curious indeed. Figuring out how to play this pitch might be harder than he imagined.

He didn’t have enough time to consider all his options, however. Although the kid’s determination was strong, it seemed his patience had worn out. The boy glanced back at Iron Heights one last time, sighed, and began to walk away.

Now that wouldn’t do.

Cold silently emerged from beneath the trees. “Careful, kid.” He called out. A not so small portion of him delighted in the tiny gasp of fright the boy let out as he spun back around. “You’ll catch your death out here.”

Cold slunk a little closer to the road, but stayed just beyond the trees. A little fright was all well and good, but this prey might be liable to spook. Poor kid had a real deer in headlights, Bambi look about him. Complete with freckles, dewy doe-eyes, and sandy brown hair.

He softened his approach just a hair, ran an idle finger on a low hanging branch and gently caressed a few of the more ambitious buds already preparing to emerge.

“What’s your name, kid?” Cold asked as he inched closer.

The kid choked on air a few times before he finally stammered, “Uh...B-b-barry.” Then firmer, “My name is Barry Allen.”

Cold stopped at the end of the branch, his feet on the edge of the old road at last. “Tell, me Barry. Why are you here?”

The kid, Barry, fidgeted with the hem of his thin jacket, tugged at it as if it were too short when in fact it swallowed up his thin frame. “Well, I guess I could ask you the same thing, Mr…?”

Cold paused, confused, before he realized and barely suppressed an exasperated sigh. Hell’s bells, this kid needed saving from himself. Instead of voicing this, however, Cold flashed a toothy grin. 

“Call me Cold, kid,” he purred. “As for why _I’m_ here...well. That’s entirely up to you, Barry. After all,” Cold removed his hand from the branch. In an instant the wood blackened and died, its buds little more than dry husks. He stalked closer to Barry, within spitting distance, and allowed his red eyes to flash. “You summoned me.”

The demon heard Barry’s breath catch. Those bright, wide eyes darted to Cold, then the branch, then back to Cold. And then crinkled with...a smile?

Cold almost blinked in surprise as a small--fragile but undoubtedly there--smile graced that fresh face. 

“You’re--ha! You’re the demon!” Barry breathed out. “Oh my god, it worked. It actually worked!”

Cold had encountered a number of different emotions in response to his appearance--fear, surprise, trepidation. He couldn’t recall joy ever being one of them. He tried to keep his own face as blank as possible. “Now, now. Let’s not bring god into it.”

But the kid’s exclamations did not stop. “Wow. Oh my god, _wow_.” He ran a hand through his hair excitedly. “You’re real! It’s all real. No, wait, is it all real? Are werewolves real? Vampires? Harry Potter? Is this...I’m not dreaming am I?” In the end it was Barry who closed the distance between them. Bold, unafraid, and apparently high on the thrill of discovery, he marched right up to Cold, stuck out his arm and said, “Pinch me. Or something.”

Taken aback--a rarity for the demon--Cold could only blink incredulously at Barry, easily the most bizarre human of his acquaintance. After a moment though, he obliged.

The tiny, pricking sensation set the kid off again, his smile wider and brighter. “Not a dream. This is real. This is real!” There was more rambling and excited hair tugging.

The kid’s unfettered enthusiasm amused Cold to no end; he had never seen anything quite like it. But he had places to be. Souls to collect. 

“Sure, kid,” Cold finally interrupted. “Werewolves: real. Vampires: real. Harry Potter: don’t know, don’t care. Crossroad demons: very real. And you’ve summoned one to...what? Revel in the existence of the supernatural?”

At this the boy sobered abruptly. “Oh. No. That’s not--I mean, I just wasn’t sure it would work. If the book was right. I just...had to try.” Gone was the wide smile. And with it went the last bits of warmth in the night air. Not that it bothered Cold. Really. Young Barry’s face now projected an emotion the demon was intimately familiar with: desperation.

Cold wouldn’t need tricks or worthwhile bait to seal the deal; the fly had already willing wandered into the spider’s web. It was all old hat from here on out. Cold was almost disappointed. “I take it you have a request in mind.”

Barry nodded, determined.

“And you’re aware that a favor from a demon requires a certain...compensation?”

Barry gulped, but nodded again. “M-my soul. Right?”

“Bingo.” Cold took the time to wander a little farther out from under the trees. Barry’s eyes followed him as he made his way into the center of the crossroad. “Standard term is 10 years. Maybe less. Depends on the favor. On what else can sweeten the pot. You are at liberty to ask for anything. There is very little that I can’t do under the power of a contract, but that doesn’t mean you can afford everything on the menu.”

For the first time, Barry hesitated, his voice trembled “Years?”

Fires below, it was like taking candy from a baby. Not that it would make it any less sweet for Cold in the the end.

“Yes, years. Why sell your soul for something you don’t get to enjoy? Depending on the favor, you have a certain number of years to revel in the spoils. Think of it like a loan with a very generous deferment period.”

Barry mulled the metaphor over. “So...when it comes time to collect I...die?”

Cold nodded. “Your soul is harvested. And the body can’t survive without it so, yes.” He paused. 

At this point he was usually laying it on pretty thick. ‘10 years is such a very long time. It’ll feel like _ages_. Isn’t 10 years of living like a king better than 50 as a pauper?’ But Cold had a feeling his usual pitch would not have the same effect on young Barry.

“Still interested?” Was all he added instead.

Ever a surprise, Barry’s face abruptly lost all traces of that anxious tremble. It stilled to a more serious facade and the boy nodded.

Something in Cold’s gut rumbled with hot anticipation. His skin itched and his mouth practically watered. “Excellent.” He grinned. “So tell me, Barry Allen. What is it your heart most desires? Power, fame, glory? _...Love?_ ” With a little flourish Cold spread his arms in front of him. He was the snake in the Garden of Eden. He was Delilah tempting Samson. The very thought gave him a heady rush. “What do you _want_?”

A pregnant pause hung in the air. Cold savored the tension. _This_ was his element. This he knew. Be it in the back of a bar room or in the shadow of a prison. This was familiar. 

At last the moment peaked and crested as Barry drew a deep breath, opened his mouth and said:

“My mother’s murderer.”

Well...that was...unexpected.

Cold stared at the boy for a long moment, but that stubborn chin did not waver. This little tete a tete just might prove interesting. Very interesting, indeed. 

Just because he could, Cold grinned and prodded. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more specific: you want them dead? Do you… _desire_ them?”

It was worth it just to see the horror and disgust in Barry’s face. “Wha--no! Neither!”

“You don’t want revenge, Barry Allen? I must say I’ve got a soft spot for good old fashioned vengeance. If you wanted to kill the villain yourself I might even be persuaded to offer you a special price. Little more than a finder’s fee, really. If you’d prefer not to get your hands dirty, however…”

“I need him alive!” Barry’s shout echoed up through the trees and rang out into the night. 

The kid seemed full of endless surprises.

Barry looked startled at his own outburst as he glanced nervously about. It didn’t worry Cold, though. There was no one to hear. He knew from experience. 

Sheepish now, Barry reiterated, “I need him alive, caught, and turned into the CCPD. Not dead.”

“Oh?” Now that was intriguing, too. “Tall order, kid. Tell me: why?”

And then came the tale. The impossible. The man in the lightning, a storm of red and yellow, Barry’s father in cuffs, a young boy’s story discounted and dismissed, the dangerous world for a man behind bars. The words just kept tumbling out. 

To most people it probably did seem impossible. But then most people thought demons were equally as impossible. 

“I need to catch the man in the lightning so I can get my father out of prison.” The sob story continued. “Or it’s gonna kill him.”

Cold was not entirely sure why, it wasn’t like him to talk a mark out of a deal, but he had to ask, “What makes you so sure they’re not right? Maybe your father is exactly where he belongs.”

“I was _there_ ,” Barry pleads. “I saw it all. They say I wasn’t. That I couldn’t possibly have been in the house and then blocks away. But I was. Somehow it just happened. They thought it was impossible, but if I’ve learned anything tonight it’s that the impossible is possible. So if I could just _find_ him, turn him in, I’d have _proof_. They’d have to--”

Cold tuned the rest of Barry’s plea out and hummed in thought. 

An impossible man shrouded and wrapped in lightning. Not your usual red-eye, most likely. Maybe a yellow-eyed demons. Those nasty bastards had all sorts of tricks up their sleeves. And they didn’t need a contract to do it either. 

On the one hand it could be the opportunity to put what sounded like a wildly misbehaving demon back in its place. Take a potential competitor down a few pegs. On the other it was never wise to act against your own kind, regardless of the great personal satisfaction it might bring.

“Sorry, kid. No can do.”

The teen’s word vomit abruptly ceased and his chest visibly deflated. “But you said _anything_. Any wish, any favor.” He protested.

“You can’t afford that favor.”

This did not seem to deter the boy in the slightest. “Whatever the cost, I’ll pay it. I’ll take five years. Three.”

Finally Cold snapped, “I can’t catch your impossible man.” Well, technically he probably _could_. But he wouldn’t.

Barry’s gaze dropped to the the dirt road. “But I- I - ...nevermind I guess.”

And perhaps Cold had some sort of fit, a temporary, empathetic seizure. Perhaps some odd sense of solidarity towards another (for all intents and purposes) orphan tugged at his phantom heartstrings. Or perhaps it was because Barry’s undeniable innocence, his openly expressive face--so pure and naively trusting--played right into the most primal of Cold’s urges: to take, to corrupt, to _devour_.

Whatever the reason, before he even knew what he was saying, Cold responded, “Now, hold on.”

The kid’s head snapped up, tremulous hope plastered across his features for all the world to see.

Cold--though he already felt himself regretting it--continued. “I said I couldn’t catch the man in the lightning. I never said I couldn’t get your father out of prison.” 

\-------------------

Barry thought for sure he was going to get emotional whiplash. In the last hour alone he’d gone so rapidly from hope to disappointment back to joy then worry and despair, it was a wonder he still had enough in him to dare and be hopeful once again.

“R-really?”

It wasn’t exactly what Barry had asked for, the man in the lightning would still be out there somewhere. But wasn’t the whole point of catching him to free Barry’s father. As long as he got that…

“One get out of jail free card for Mr. Henry Allen. Just like that.”

And even though it was his second choice, it still seemed too good to be true. He had an inkling that is was.

“Now hang on.” Barry crossed his arms. “I don’t want it to be ‘just like that’. There ought to be some rules.”

The demon--Cold he’d called himself--titled his head curiously. “Oh? Whatever do you mean.” All feigned innocence.

“It’s like a genie, right?” Barry reasoned. “You ask for a million bucks and end up with a million male deer. I don’t want any loopholes.”

Cold actually chuckled, a low barely audible sound. “Now, Barry, I’m insulted. I would _never_.”

Barry stared him down. He might be young, but he wasn’t naive. 

Cold laughed again. “Alright, fair enough. Name your terms, kid.” 

Barry thought for a long moment. He tried to cover any and all technicalities. “First, I want him out _legally_. No prison break, no life on the run or cops on his tail. Found innocent and released.”

Cold raised an eyebrow, but nodded.

“Second, nobody else gets hurt. An innocent man doesn’t take the fall, another body doesn’t show up, nothing untoward.”

When Cold ventured, “What about a _guilty_ man?” Barry glared him down until he shrugged and nodded once more.

“You drive a hard bargain, kid, but I’ll bite. No fall guy. Anything else?”

“Third...uh,” Barry hadn’t actually gotten as far as a third thing, yet. “Third...you, uh, you can’t tell anyone. About the deal. Or what happens to me. Ever. No one can know”

Cold grinned. “Well, much of that is up to you, kid, but I swear,” he made a mock boy scout gesture “No one will hear it from me.”

Barry nodded, satisfied. 

“So all this,” the demon motioned toward Iron Heights, still looming in the background, “your father’s freedom, free from any morally dubious shenanigans, a devout vow of secrecy...in exchange for 10 years. Do we have a deal?”

Barry hesitated. This was it. His last chance to back out of selling his very _soul_. His heart pounded. Was he really about to do this? Barry glanced back at the prison, thought of his father lying there in the infirmary.

Yes. Yes he was.

He stuck out his hand, palm open and ready to shake. “Deal.”

But Cold did not shake it at first. When at last he took Barry’s hand he chuckled and shook it, but did not let go, clasping it in both of his own.

Despite the name, Cold’s hands were not so. Although they weren’t quite warm either. They lacked the heat of life, but neither were they the ice of death, they just existed somewhere in between, exerted pressure, but not substance. 

“Cute, kid. But I’m afraid that’s not how demons seal a deal. Our way is a bit more...primal.”

Barry gulped. “B-blood?” He ventured nervously.

Barry felt the rumble of Cold’s laugh once more. “Nothing so savage.” The demon tugged lightly on their linked hands, pulling Barry a couple inches closer. “All it takes is a kiss.”

Barry’s mind shorted out.

“What.”

He could feel the responding smirk. “A kiss. Two people, two sets of lips. Meeting somewhere in between.”

Barry sputtered. “You can’t be serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

“Wha--but--” It was stupid. Ridiculous really. Here Barry was, ready to sell his soul to a demon...but he was hesitant about kissing one. It wasn’t that Cold was a particularly unatractive kissing partner, quite the opposite as far as demons were concerned. Although, Barry amended, it’s not like he had a large sample pool. Maybe he really was naive, it was just he’d always imagined his first... 

It didn’t matter. Not compared his father’s life.

Before he lost his nerves, Barry darted forward.

He didn’t need to be an experience kisser to know that as far as kisses went, this one was pretty terrible. Cold’s lips, like his hands, were neither warm nor cold. Barry also somehow managed to bite his own lip in the process. Just a little bit. But nevertheless a tiny little spark seemed to shoot from his injured lip, down his spine, all the way to his toes.

He pulled away as quickly as he’d started.

Meanwhile Cold eyed him with a teasing stare. “Might want to polish that technique a bit, kid.” 

Barry’s cheeks flamed. He was certain his whole body was flushed bright red. 

“But a kiss is still a kiss,” the demon continued. “And a deal is a deal.” He snapped his fingers and made a shallow bow. “Pleasure doing business with you, Barry.”

And then, just like that, Cold was gone leaving nothing but empty air and the night’s chill behind him.

Barry didn’t feel any different. There was no magical hum in the air, no change in the wind, nothing at all to indicate any mystical influence. Only the faintest lingering taste on his lips signified that anything had happened at all.

Barry began to feel a bit silly, standing alone in the middle of a dirt road. Perhaps he should have included a ride back home in the deal? The thought made Barry giggle until, all at once, he couldn’t stop laughing. If anyone on the force found him they would probably think he was drunk or that he’d gone insane. But the incredulous, wild giggle kept bubbling up and Barry kept laughing until his lungs ran out of air.

A ride? Barry couldn’t even be sure he hadn’t dreamed the whole thing. It was all so surreal, utterly inconceivable, too fantastical to be reality. Joe had warned him time and time: if it seemed to good to be true, it probably was.

Barry groaned as he remembered. _Joe_. He was going to ground Barry for a _month_ for this disappearing act. Barry squinted at the horizon. Dawn was still a long way off, but if Barry’s rapidly increasing exhaustion was any indication, it would be far closer to morning than it was to midnight by the time he made it back. He still had his wallet, with enough cash to make it to the precinct if not all the way home, but his cell sat dead and useless in his back pocket, and he wasn’t likely to run into a taxi or even a patrol car all the way out here.

He sighed, a bone-deep tiredness seeping into every limb along with a teeth chattering chill. Resigned, Barry tugged his thin jacket tightly around him and tucked his freezing fingers under his armpits for warmth. With heavy footsteps, he began his long walk, using the lights of Central City as his guide.

The further he got from the crossroads, the less real the whole ordeal seemed. A demon that looked like he’d strolled straight from the depths of Barry’s most secret wet-dream? Who offered up all Barry’s most desperate desires? And sealed with deal with a kiss? Yeah, right. Reason and logic said it was all a fantasy. A crazed, fevered, childishly hopeful hallucination meant to calm his fear, ease his worry about his father. He repeated this reasoning to himself over and over, tried to convince himself. The same way he used to try and convince himself that the man in the lightning didn’t exist, get the therapists off his back.

But--that traitorous portion of his mind chimed once more--if Cold wasn’t real, why did Barry’s lips still tingle with the echo of that brief kiss?

With these conflicting thoughts churning, Barry continued his long, slow march.

Several miles and hours later, Barry at last reached a section of the city that looked vaguely familiar. He was so very tired. His blisters had blisters. His shivers had shivers. He wanted nothing more than to locate the first moderately comfortable surface he could find and collapse. He nearly cried with relief when a squad car pulled up beside him.

The officer rolled down the window and called out to him. “Hey. You’re Barry, right? Joe West’s uh--umm--”

Barry cut him off before either one of them had to stumble through the awkwardness of figuring out the proper term. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“You lost?” The same officer asked.

Barry didn’t recognize him, but he recognized his partner who leaned over across the console to get a better look. Barry had seen Officer Singh around the station plenty of times. He was, by all accounts, a good man, a good cop, on the fast track to becoming a detective. So Barry didn’t hesitate to explain. “Not exactly. Just--just a rough visit a Iron Heights is all. Wanted to walk home. Clear my head.”

Officer Singh raised an eyebrow. “You walked all the way from Iron Heights?”

Well, the country crossroad about a mile beyond it, Barry amended silently. To the officers he simply said, “I didn’t realize how far it was,” as he scratched the back of his neck and nodded sheepishly.

The two were quick to offer Barry a ride home despite the fact that it clearly wasn’t on their usual beat. The only seat available of course was in the back behind the grate, but Barry didn’t mind. Even the back seat of a cop car felt like heaven for his poor, exhausted feet. He thanked Officer Singh and his partner profusely and then, not moments after the car pulled away from the curb, Barry fell asleep. 

After what felt like only seconds, Barry blinked awake when he felt, more than heard, the engine shut off. 

“Hey, Barry.” Officer Singh was calling from the front seat. “Hey, Barry, gotta wake up, kid.”

Barry tried to rub the haze of sleep from his eyes as Singh and his partner moved to open the doors to the back.

Singh crouched down beside him. “Sorry, Barry. Change of plans.” He glanced at his partner with a look Barry couldn’t discern. Anxiety? Hesitance? Confusion? “A call came in over the radio. There’s a-- well, there’s a bit of a... situation.” Barry, still groggy, glanced around. They were at the hospital.

Fear gripped every inch of him. Exhaustion was quickly replaced with adrenaline as Barry sprang upright. “What is it? Is it my dad? Is he okay?” He tried to scramble out of the car, but tripped and nearly face planted on the curb before Singh steadied him and set him on his feet.

“Woah! Easy does it there. Everything is fine. Your dad is fine. It’s actually--” Singh glanced at his partner again, evidently unsure of what to say. “Look, why don’t we go inside? Joe’s here waiting for you. He’s been worried about you. He’ll want to tell you in person.”

Barry’s insides felt poised to shatter at a moment’s notice. “Tell me what?”

Officer Singh and his partner offered no further details, but Barry followed them inside on unsteady legs. His shivers had returned despite the fact that he could no longer feel the cold.

As Singh said, Joe was waiting for them in the lobby. When they first entered he was pacing the breadth of the front desk and running an agitated hand across the top of his head, but as soon as he spotted them he stopped and rushed Barry into a tight hug. 

“Oh, thank god.”He gripped Barry’s shoulders and pulled him back just enough to see his face. “Barr, you scared me half to death.”

Barry stared down at his feet. “I know. ’m sorry.” He mumbled. “It was just--my dad. I c-c-can’t lose him, too. Not today, of all days, not ever. I just--” He threw his arms back around Joe and tried to hug hard enough to stop the tears from flowing.

“I know. I know, kiddo.” Joe soothed. He rubbed one hand in small, calming circles on Barry’s back. “It’s gonna be okay.”

As Joe continued to clutch Barry to his side he at last addressed Barry’s saviours. “Singh. Dodson.” He nodded to each of them. “Thank you. For finding him, bringing him.”

“Sure thing.” “Any time.” “Keep us posted.” They chorused back and slipped hastily and quietly back through the sliding doors.

Joe glanced back down to his armful of Barry Allen. “Come on, Barr. Let’s take a walk.”

With no true urgency in his pace, Joe led Barry through the halls of the hospital, keeping one arm wrapped around his shoulder and speaking in a low, steady tone all the while.

“Barry…” Joe didn’t seem to know how to begin. “Something...strange has happened.”

Despite Joe’s warm, solid presence at Barry’s side, the teen’s anxiety sent another wave of nervous babble streaming from his mouth. “What’s wrong? Is my dad okay? Iris? What happened? Why won’t anyone tell me!?”

Joe sighed as he pushed open a door to another wing of the hospital. They passed a nurses station where Joe waved his badge and nodded at the orderly behind the desk. “Your dad is fine. He’s still in the infirmary. Iris is fine. She’s safe at home. Everyone is _fine_. It’s just--well, it’s complicated. And a little difficult to understand.”

They stopped short outside of a room in a hall Barry didn’t recognize. The door was shut, but Barry could hear soft murmurs slip out through the crack above the floor. Two different doctor talking lowly and slowly.

Barry’s brow furrowed. “Joe? Where are we?”

“This is the private sector of the Psych wing.” Joe explained as he scratched lightly at his hairline. “It’s...not exactly procedure, but the issue is sensitive.”

“Joe.” Barry said again, firmer. “ _Why_ are we here?”

“You see, Barr, just a couple hours ago, we found--here why don’t you sit down?” He motioned to the unyielding armchairs lined neatly against the wall. 

But Barry did not sit. He didn’t even make a motion to. Because as soon as had Joe finished speaking, the doctors inside did as well. Whoever their patient was began speaking instead. Her melodic voice floated through the door and into the hallway.

Barry hadn’t heard that voice for four years, but he would recognize it anywhere.

His breath caught in his throat, “Wha-?” 

He didn’t bother directing the question to Joe. With a burst of speed he pushed past him and through the door. The doctors spun around, startled and flustered. “Hey! Visitors are not--” Barry didn’t hear them. He didn’t see them. He didn’t register their presence in anyway. He only had eyes for the woman laying on top of the hospital bed: living, breathing, staring straight back at him.

Barry inhaled. The air tasted salty. Or maybe it was the tears already running down his face.

At last the woman spoke. “Barry?” She asked, though her voice trembled.

Once again Barry paid no mind to the doctors’ protests, nor to Joe’s entrance, The woman’s arms reached out towards him and Barry threw himself forward, let their slender strength engulf him.

Only then--when he felt her real and solid next to him, when her scent flooded his senses, when he had tangible proof though it seemed impossible--did he finally allow himself to speak.

“ _Mom._ ”


	4. Ghosts and Gratitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and the other begins?" -Edgar Allen Poe_
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> 3/8/17 EDIT: Sorry if the updates ping any one's notifications. Nothing new here. Just adjusting the layout a bit. So I've combined Chapters 4+5. Still the same text, just trying to be more consistent. The new Chapter 5 (with actual new stuff) will be coming very soon though!

Welcome to the Central City Crime Tracker! A blog dedicated to keeping the Central public informed. Find out what is happening in and around your neighborhood.

 

Here you can find the latest on traffic incidents, police activity, emergency responses, and more. Check out our interactive map!

 

CALL LOG AND TRANSCRIPTS

 

Please note that when transcripts are released to the public, names and addresses may have been changed to protect an individual’s identity.

CENTRAL CITY EMERGENCY CALL LOG

DATE: 03/19/05  
AGENCY: CCPD  
SERVICE: LAW  
START TIME: 00:04 CT  
END TIME: 00:10 CT  
NATURE: HOME INVASION  
ADDRESS: [---------------------------]

CENTRAL DISPATCHER (CD)  
CALLER: SHERRY M[--------] (SM)

> CD: 911 operator, what is your emergency?
> 
> SM: (Shouting - unintelligible)  
>  UNIDENTIFIED VOICE: (Shouting - unintelligible)
> 
> CD: Hello? Ma’am?
> 
> SM: (Shouting)
> 
> SM: I should have known. Dammit I should have known. This is what I get for buying the murder house. Get out of here ghost [expletive].
> 
> CD: Excuse me, ma’am?
> 
> UNIDENTIFIED VOICE (UV): This is my house!
> 
> [00:05 CT Possible HOME INVASION. Police dispatched.]
> 
> CD: Ma’am. I have your address as [---------------------]. Please stay on the line, the police are on their way. There is a squad car nearby.
> 
> SM: Oh, thank [expletive]. Tell ‘em to send a priest, too!
> 
> CD: Please try and remain calm. Can you tell me what’s happening? Is someone in the house?
> 
> SM: I’m being haunted! That’s what’s happening!
> 
> CD: I’m sorry, ma’am, did you say haunted?
> 
> SM: Yes! Haunted!
> 
> (Shouting - unintelligible)
> 
> UV: I’m not a ghost!
> 
> SM: [expletive] off, ghost lady!
> 
> (Shouting - unintelligible)
> 
> CD: Ma’am? Ma’am?
> 
> SM: It’s Sherry, doll.
> 
> CD: Sherry. Can you describe the intruder?
> 
> SM: It’s her! It’s the dead woman!
> 
> CD: Is she white, black, hispanic?
> 
> SM: White! White like a [expletive] ghost!
> 
> (Shouting - unintelligible, glass shattering.)
> 
> UV: Watch it! I told you I’m not a ghost! I’m not dead! But you are in my house. Where is my family!?
> 
> CD: Ma’am, are you alright? Ma’am? The police are almost there.
> 
> SM: I can see the lights.
> 
> [00:08 CT Police arrived on scene - SQUAD CAR 38: OFFICER WEST, OFFICER MALDONADO]
> 
> SM: Officers! Officers!
> 
> [00:08 CT Officers entered through unlocked front door.]
> 
> MALDONADO: This is the police! Hands where I can see them!
> 
> UV: Joe! Thank god. Will you please get this woman out of my-- wait, what are you arresting me for?
> 
> SM: (unintelligible).
> 
> WEST: Nora?
> 
> SM: (unintelligible)
> 
> CD: Ma’am? Sherry? Is everything alright over there?
> 
> SM: Uh, so I guess she’s not a ghost?
> 
> [END CALL]

\-------------------

“Tell me, honestly,” Joe said to the wiry haired night nurse in brightly patterned pink scrubs as he rubbed at a persistent ache twinging in his temple. “Is this the strangest thing you guys have seen?”

The nurse--Claudia, her ID tag read--levelled him with a flat stare before returning to Nora’s charts. “The strangest? Honey, I’ve treated a soy sauce overdose and seen tumors that were actually twins. This doesn’t even break the top 10.” 

Joe grunted. He had little energy for anything else at that moment. “Well. I suppose that’s somewhat comforting.” 

Claudia’s gaze softened as she took in the bags under Joe’s eyes and the trash can full of empty paper coffee cups, the ones that were unmistakably from the ancient machine around the corner from the nurses station that groaned, creaked, and whistled with every use. “I’m just glad this cluster of a mess has a happy ending. Even with all the weirdness, I’ll count it as a win in my book.”

Joe simply hummed ambiguously and barely noticed as the nurse slipped away.

Weirdness, yeah. That was one word for it. Joe could think of a few more colorful ones that might do the situation more justice, but he’d settle for “massive headache” both to match the one that had taken up residency in his own skull and the one he could see coming down the pipeline.

The facts were these:

According to every test the hospital ran, the woman lying in the hospital bed Joe was standing watch over was, undeniably alive and well.

Which seemed like common sense except according to the fastest DNA analysis the department had ever done, the woman lying in the hospital bed Joe was standing watch over was also, beyond any reasonable doubt, Nora Allen.

Shortly after midnight, Nora had been discovered in her old living room by the house’s current occupant.

She’d first been arrested (because technically it _was_ trespassing on private property), but the arrest had quickly turned into a trip to the hospital A) because Nora Allen was supposed to be dead and B) because another alarming fact had come to light.

Nora remembered nothing of the past 4 years.

These facts only presented more questions that Joe’s cop-brain assembled like a shopping list of even more potential headaches.

If Nora wasn’t dead, what had really happened that night? Who had they buried? Where had they made a mistake? Why did she appear tonight, of all nights, 4 years to the day since she had apparently disappeared and not died? Had anyone informed Henry Allen that the wife he’d been imprisoned for murdering was, in fact, alive? 

And finally, he added one more hovering question to the list as he watched his foster son’s chest rise and fall in slow, sleepy time with his mother’s: Would Barry ever forgive him?

Joe rubbed again at his throbbing forehead. He’d been so sure. Completely sure. Henry Allen murdered his wife. Joe never found a convincing reason _why_ the doctor had apparently snapped one night, but then that hadn’t mattered. Not when they’d caught him red handed.

Day after day, year after year, Joe had heard Barry’s pleas. His father was innocent. There were more sinister forces at work. And day after day, year after year, Joe had tolerated it with all the patience he could afford, but largely endeavored to ignore what he’d believed were the fantasies of a traumatized young boy. Refusing to indulge these wild theories was what was best, Joe had thought, for Barry.

And now it appeared Barry was right all along. More pressingly, it also appeared that Nora Allen had been out there all along and no one ever searched for her. Who knows what happened in those missing years? There was always the sobering possibility that it was so traumatic she’d repressed the whole ordeal. Much as Joe thought Barry did all those years ago.

Even if Barry might one day, Joe wasn’t sure he could forgive himself.

He let his hand fall from him temple to his mouth, trying to stifle a yawn and scratching at his growing 5 o’clock _AM_ shadow. It had been a long night, it would be a long day yet. Dawn was approaching and at some point Joe would have to pick up Iris--who was reluctantly holding down the fort at home, although Joe knew there was nothing she wanted more than to be in the thick of things, to help. When it came to family, Iris was quite possibly even more stubborn than Joe and Barry combined.

Joe was unsure what he was dreading more: the absolute shit storm that was about to erupt at work, or the incessant grilling he was sure to get from his teenage daughter.

Either way, he decided, he was going to need a substantial caffeine fix before he was remotely prepared to tackle any of it.

Joe took another long look at the duo on the bed. Strictly speaking, the doctors who’d begrudgingly allowed Barry to stay well outside of normal visiting hours had expressly told the boy he was to stay in the chair and give his mother space. And strictly speaking Barry still had one leg on the chair, but 90% of his body was tilted forward on to the bed, curled up underneath his mother’s arm.

In that moment, looking at Barry’s soft, sleep-vulnerable face, Joe was transported back nearly 4 years. He recalled those late nights and early mornings when Joe kept another sort of bedside vigil. He remembered how intimately familiar he got with the desk chair in the Barry’s--formerly the guest--bedroom watching that face for any sign of a frown, listening for any hint of a whimper. He remembered nodding off only to be woken night after night by the shouts that accompanied Barry’s routine nightmares.

“Mom! Mom! No, mom!”

He remembered--with an degree of crystal clear detail he wished he didn’t--that heartbreakingly young face twisted in terror and the smell of briny tears that always came when Joe managed at last to shake Barry awake. 

Sleeping by his mother’s side, Barry’s face looked almost as young as it had his first night in the West household, but the difference was striking. It was smooth, peaceful. No furrowed brow nor distraught frown marred his freckled face. If anything, his lips slanted slightly upwards in an unconscious smile, his dreams evidently far more peaceful than they’d been in years.

In spite of his headache, Joe couldn’t help but smile sadly to himself before him slipped down the hall in search of more coffee.

\----------

Unbeknownst to the room’s inhabitants, another set of eyes were also trained on the boy and his mother. The demon known as Cold lurked unseen just beyond the window pane. He’d watched as doctor after doctor, specialist after specialist came and went. They all seemed to come up with a new way to poke and prod Nora Allen.

They would find nothing amiss, Cold was sure of that. As far as resurrections went, Nora’s was child’s play: no lingering sickness to eradicate, no curses to dispel, just one life abruptly cut too short, unravelled from its tapestry like a loose thread. It was a simple matter to restore her body and soul to their state before that violent night all those years ago. 

But simple or not, there were some things even a demon couldn’t accomplish, bureaucratic hogwash that had no shortcut, not if Nora-Allen was to be declared _legally_ not-dead. There would no doubt be a parade of more doctors--headshrinkers--who would puzzle over the gaping hole in their patient’s memories that left no clues to Mrs. Allen’s “disappearance.” 

The CCPD would have no choice but to conduct a thorough investigation of everyone on the case from the captain to the coroner. There would be numerous legal hoops to jump through, but the fact remained that without a victim, there was no murder, without a murder there was no murderer. The due process would probably take some time, but soon enough Henry Allen would be a free man.

However, the clock started counting down the very second that ernest, doe-eyed little Barry pressed his lips against Cold’s. The demon needed to make sure the kid knew it, and that there would be no escape. So far the boy hadn’t strayed from his mother’s side, and his watchful cop-guardian had not strayed far from Barry’s side, not even to sleep. Cold was waiting for the right moment. That was all.

At least, that’s what he told himself. And what he told Mick when the hellhound materialized beside him and had the audacity to grunt and huff, “What, are ya goin’ soft? All for a bit o’ jailbait?”

Cold didn’t bother trying to suppress his eye roll. “Just bartered for a teenager’s soul so, no,” he drawled. “‘Soft’ ain’t exactly the word I’d use. Besides, a soul that young and clean is worth three times the kid’s weight in gold.”

Mick grunted again and crossed his arms. “ _Please._ Ya gave ‘im a twofer. Mom ‘n dad in one fell swoop? Me ‘n the gang ought’a canonize ya.”

“Kid had some pretty strict stipulations. I had to get creative.”

“Yeah, sure.” Though Cold was watching the hospital and not Mick, he could perfectly picture Mick making an eye roll of his own. “‘Cuz you’re in the habit o’ lettin’ punk ass teens throw in a buncha technicalities.”

Eyes still on the scene through the window Cold responded, “You know I enjoy a challenge. And,” he hesitated. The instinct to suppress information, lest he snitch on the wrong sort of enemy--a relic of feelings from another time--was strong. But then, he reasoned, Mick wasn’t exactly the talking kind. “Something ain’t right.”

“How’d’ you mean?”

Cold hummed. “The real murderer. The man who killed the kid’s mother. Kid said he looked like he was surrounded by lightning. Wild stuff. Inhuman.”

It was Mick’s turn to hum in thought. “One o’ ours steppin’ outta line, ya think?”

“Hmm. Maybe. Maybe not.”

Mick frowned and made to speak again, “Well, wha’ else--” but Cold held up a hand.

Barry’s ever present guardian had just slipped from the room. Now was his chance. “We’ll discuss this later,” was all the dismissal he gave Mick before he stepped straight through the wall like it was smoke instead of glass and concrete.

\-----------------

For a moment Barry wasn’t sure what woke him. The room was silent, his mother was still asleep, but the hair on the back of his neck prickled liked it had been brushed by a cool wind. He raised his head, blinking sleep from his eyes, and at last spotted Cold standing stiffly at the foot of the hospital bed.

Barry sat up, alarmed. His head swivelled nervously, certain that Joe or one of the nurse’s would see. Hadn’t that been part of their deal? No one else was supposed to know.

But there was no one else in sight. Barry’s heart rate decreased to just one level below rabbiting. 

“What-?” he started to ask, but Cold interrupted him with one slender finger pressed to his lips. 

“Wouldn’t want to wake up mommy dearest, now would we?” The demon whispered. He motioned instead to the small, private bathroom in the corner of the room. It wasn’t exactly soundproof, but it would have to do.

Barry gulped, nodded, and rose as quietly as he could, slipping reluctantly from the warm dent he’d made on the edge of the thin hospital mattress.

The bathroom betrayed the hospital’s aging infrastructure. Mint tiles that screamed 50s decor wrapped around the bottom half of all four walls. Meanwhile the floor had faded to a scuffed mosaic of off-white flecked with black, but the more recent paint job on the top half of the walls was such a bright white it looked almost blue. The distinct hospital smell of circulated air and disinfectant was so strong it almost made Barry’s eyes water. Nevertheless he slipped inside without a word, Cold close behind him.

Theoretically the bathroom was handicap accessible, but only just. It would have taken some careful maneuvering to navigate the small floor space between the raised toilet and the sink in a wheelchair. As Barry shut the door behind them he felt the lack of space acutely. There was no where to look except at Cold and the metal drain in the floor. As the demon opted to lean casually against the rim of the sink, Barry was left with only two choices: to perch awkwardly on the edge of the toilet or attempt a similar casual lean on the metal handicap arm rail.

He opted for the latter, but he seriously doubted he’d managed the “casual” part.

He waited for the demon to speak, but Cold seemed content to sit in silence, staring at Barry, face unreadable.

“So,” Barry half whispered. All the tile made his voice echo oddly, even in such close quarters. “This was you, right? My mom? All of it?”

Cold didn’t so much nod as tip his forehead slightly in Barry’s direction. “You wanted your father’s freedom without another suspect or a breakout. I improvised.”

Barry was stunned. He sank further into his lean and nearly slipped off the rail. He’d suspected, of course. That this was all part of Cold’s deal. A convoluted plan to get his father out of prison. It was all too fantastical to be anything but the result of this new phenomenon he’d stumbled upon. Demons and monsters and magic. It was wonderful. It was horrible. It brought back his _mom_.

Before Barry knew what he was doing he was standing and crossing the width of the small bathroom. Barely pausing to gauge Cold’s response to the sudden approach of a scrawny teenager, Barry threw his arms around the ~~man’s~~ demon’s middle in a tight hug.

\--------------------

It was Cold’s turn to be stunned.

For a long moment he didn’t even fully comprehend what was happening. Was...was he being _hugged_? It took another long moment before Cold could make sense of the words Barry was mumbling.

“Thank you. _Thank you_.” Over and over again.

He quickly extricated himself from Barry’s surprisingly strong grip to hold him at arm’s length. There were tears glistening at the corners of the kid’s eyes. Oh no. This is not how this was meant to go.

“Don’t thank me.” He said brusquely. “It wasn’t free.”

This did little to deter Barry’s effusive gratitude. 

“I know,” Barry said. He shook his head and stowed away the tears, but he was still wearing a watery smile as he resumed his spot on the opposite side of the already too small room that suddenly felt much smaller. “I know. But still. Thank you.”

Cold folded his arms across his chest as is to shield himself from any more spontaneous burst of thankfulness. “ Didn’t come here for thank yous, I came here to clarify a few rules, got it?”

Barry nodded and Cold nodded back. Down to business.

“Now that you’ve seen what I can do, know just one thing: you don’t want to be on the opposite end of that power. There are no take backs. No cold feet. You bought and I will be collecting my fee in due time. It would be in your best interest to accept that fact as soon as possible. Because there is no where you can go that I can’t find you. When you’re time is up, if you don’t come quietly you will be dragged, kicking and screaming, capiche?”

Barry nodded again, although Cold got the sense that the message hadn’t really hit home. Kid was still riding the high. Nevertheless he pressed on. 

“What’s more, your clock has already started. It’ll still be some time before your father is officially released, but such is the way when you want to add in all your goody two shoes stipulations. All the same, as of midnight tonight, you have years. I trust I won’t need to remind you of the date.”

Barry gave a small laugh and Cold’s eye narrowed at him.

“Oh no,” Barry explained, “It’s not--I’ll remember. Definitely. I mean how could I forget? It’s, uh, it’s my birthday.”

Cold missed a beat. “Well. Happy Birthday to you, I suppose.” He drawled. “Makes for one hell of a birthday present: your father’s freedom. And it _will_ happen, I can promise you that. The match has been lit, the wheels greased. It might take a bit, few weeks, but his freedom is a certainty, or on my own black soul be it.”

“I trust you,” the kid said. Cold almost raised an eyebrow at the sheer naivety before Barry surprise him once again. “After all, if you don’t follow through on your end you don’t get your pay out, do you?”

There was that rod of steel Cold had caught a glimpse of in the forest. Barry might be hopeful, optimistic, and a number of other things Cold generally found distasteful, but naive he was not. His eyes were far too clear, his mind far too sharp, and his heart far too bruised to be blind to the way of the world.

Cold inclined his head. “Just so.”

Silence fell over the bathroom. Col felt he ought to leave before Barry tried to hug him again or something more ridiculous. He prepared to go. “Fair warning, kid.” Cold tossed over his shoulder as he rose from the sink.“The scope of my powers might be impressive, but it won’t shield you from one of life’s greatest evils.”

The boy frowned and cocked his head, puzzled.

Cold smirked. “Paperwork.” Then without another word he slipped back through main room and the outer wall like a ghost, smooth and silent.

When he came through to the other side, Mick had already gone. Which was probably just as well. Cold spent far longer than he cared to admit lingering out of sight at the window, listening to the echo of Barry’s clear, warm laugh.

\--------------------

The paperwork was not the end of their troubles, of course; there was always the gossip.

As Barry had come to learn over the course of his fifteen short years of life, children could be immeasurably cruel. Teenagers, it seemed, were no different.

Barry had long endured the jibes and taunts from his peers where his father was concerned. Murderer. Psychopath. They’d called him every name in the book and more. The more vicious bullies had gone so far as to insinuate that Barry had inevitably inherited his father’s “bad blood” and was liable to snap at any moment, to which Barry once retorted, “Well then you’d better watch your back!”

He’d been quite pleased with the comeback at the time, but regretted it not moments later when his words landed him in the the nurse’s office with a split lip, a bloody nose, and a blossoming black eye.

After the recent strange events, the rumour mill sprang to life once more, grinding and pummelling away. It did not seem to matter much to the regulars that their old material no longer held any water. The focus quickly shifted from Barry’s father to Barry’s mother.

This time around, however, Barry found their harsh words and not so hushed comments infinitely easier to endure. Perhaps because he’d matured a bit more, but more likely because (for the once in his life) the taunts targeted something that made Barry happy, not miserable.

It was easy to ignore Tony Woodward shouting his pet theory--that Nora Allen had run off and only returned when she ran out of drug money--when Barry knew that his mother would be waiting at home with open arms. He mastered the art of simply pretending he didn’t hear Becky Cooper insist that his mother had somehow concocted an elaborate fraud scheme, that the whole affair was some sort of diabolical plot involving lots of insurance money. 

Which was ridiculous for a number of reasons. Chief among them the fact that any life insurance money had gone into a small but respectable trust fund for Barry, not to mention the fact that a decent portion had to be returned when Nora Allen had been legally declared “not dead”.

But it was all nothing, _nothing_ compared to the crushing relief Barry felt when we and his mother greeted Henry Allen outside the prison on the day of his release. When he flung himself into his father’s arms at last, that torturous glass partition no longer separating them. When they left Iron Heights for good.

Kids talked and kids were cruel, but Barry couldn’t stop smiling.

His mother and father--and Barry relished each chance he got to use those two words in the same sentence without squashing down a wave of grief--expressed some concern over the matter at first.

“I’m sure it’s been...difficult.” His father said one night over dinner. “I know it wasn’t easy when - when they locked me up either. Your mother and I have been talking,” he reached out and took Nora’s hand. He too revelled in the relatively new sensation of speaking about his wife in anything but the past tense. “And we just want you to know that we don’t have to stay. Not if it makes things more difficult for you.”

Not one week ago Nora Allen had been remarkably adamant (stubborn, Henry would say fondly) about staying in Central City.

“I won’t live in fear. And I won’t let a little gossip,” it was a great deal more than a little, “run us from our home.” Mrs. Masterson had happily sold the place back to them at a steal, mumbling about ghosts, curses, her ex-husband, and something about a good deal.

Nora had repeated the sentiment several times, hands on her hips and a determined frown Barry could sometimes recognize on his own face when he looked in the mirror.

For all her determination however, Barry could tell that both his mother and father were being sincere. One word from him and they’d start packing. They’d move all the way to Starling if he asked. A fresh start for the Allen family. 

“It’s fine.” He said honestly. “I don’t mind all the talk. I’ve got you guys.” His parents beamed back at him, confirming really that Barry had all he needed right there.

“Besides,” he continued. “Who wants to change schools in the middle of high school? And I’ve got friends here.”

“Friends other than Iris?” His father teased.

Barry shrugged. “Fair enough. But I’ve still got Iris here.”

It was his mother’s turn to tease. “Iris, hmmmmm?” She said, voice lilting upwards at the end, accompanied by an eyebrow waggle and a knowing smirk.

Barry flushed pink, suddenly became intimately interested in his napkin, and muttered, “It’s not like that.”

He was half embarrassed to have his crush so easily sussed out and half pleased to once again have a mother who was capable of just _knowing_ these kinds of things. 

Another part of him, one that overlapped with both of these halves, dreaded her motherly intuition. He was a afraid that one day should would look at him and know, as easily as she had just then. He worried that somehow she might see, etched between the freckles on his faces or inscribed in the corner of his eyes, exactly what he’d done and the terrible price he’d paid.

For now she merely teased again, “Well maybe it’s not like that now, but…” she winked at him.

Barry shook off the momentary cloud of dread. Fighting another embarrassed flush he groaned, “Mooooooom,” without any true annoyance. And his parents laughed in response. 

Everything will be fine Barry told himself. Just fine.


	5. Fly in the Lotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them." -Albert Einstein_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh heh. I know. It's been a super super SUPER long time. Long story short, I had school, I had surgery, my CAT had surgery, I moved, had two grandparents die. It's been a ride.
> 
> I want to extend a heartfelt thank you to all who continued to read, leave kudos, and make comments while this was on hiatus. I can't tell you how many times I wanted to give up. But then I'd go back through and read everyone's lovely thoughts and it honestly kept me going, kept me writing. 
> 
> The good news is that during the slump I continued to write a lot of little blurbs. Just did a lot of it out of order. The next chapter is already almost finished and there are some really great future bits that I'm working on expanding. So there definitely won't be as long of a wait until next time. 
> 
> Enjoy dears!

Over a year of Barry’s time ticked by in the blink of an eye and everything was not fine.

Well, no. Barry thought. It was fine. It just wasn’t _fine_ fine. Good but not great. Well, no. He revised again. That wasn’t quite right either. Some things were great. Some things were good. Others...not so much.

Surprise. It turned out magic didn’t solve _all_ life’s problems.

Number 1: School. After a blissful Summer spent rebuilding life with his family, Barry started his junior year of high school. Thus began the barrage of college prep. The tests, the visits, the discussions of his “ _future_ ”. Little did his teachers and advisers know just how short Barry’s future really was. The knowledge that the “potential” they kept talking about had a time limit, however, did not make the pressure to succeed any less strenuous.

Number 2: Family. In gaining one family, Barry felt he was losing another. Try as he might, he could not find the balance between the Wests and the Allens. Relations between Joe and his parents were polite, but stilted. Group dinners, which Barry had attempted to make a weekly affair, had dwindled to once a month, if ever. Sure, Iris and Barry were busy with school. But not _that_ busy. As much as his father and mother filled the hole in Barry’s chest, his heart now ached for the family he’d relied on for the most challenging years of his young life.

Number 3: Friends. To add insult to injury, Barry saw far less of Iris in school. They were lab partners in Chem, but the practical labs were only once a week. They shared the same gym period, but weren’t often on the same team; Iris was always picked far sooner in the lineup than Barry and his uncoordinated, gangly limbs. He’d had a short-lived friendship with Becky Cooper that ended in an equally short-lived and volatile relationship he feared Iris would forever tease him about, but not much else. The fact that he was no longer outcasted as “the murderer’s son” meant his schoolmates’ attitudes towards him thawed a bit. He now had “friendly acquaintances”. None, however, that he would consider a close friend.

From all of this he found reprieve in his parent’s smiles, their unbridled happiness. He had that much, he told himself. Focus on that and the rest would come.

He hoped.

Like he said, some things were great. Some things were good.

Puking his guts out in the upstairs bathroom? Definitely none of the above, he thought to himself as he pressed his forehead to the cool porcelain during a brief respite from barfing.

Between school and family, Barry did not have time for something as trivial as a stomach bug. The SATs did not wait for you to stop vomiting. 

His mother, who was waiting in the hall when Barry emerged from the bathroom, creased her forehead in concern and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. Her hands were gentle and soothing against Barry’s fevered skin. After a moment she frowned.

“You’re awfully warm. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay home? You could take the May or June test instead.”

Though the idea of postponing his test was appealing, Barry sighed and dolefully shook his head. “Then I’ll just be taking it in the middle of AP Exams or Finals. My brain will explode. Besides,” he tried to smile, “I already feel a little better.”

It was mostly true. He _did_ feel a modicum of something like relief, but he suspected it was temporary in nature. The urge to empty his stomach was only momentarily placated by the fact that there was nothing left to empty.

His mother was unconvinced, but agreed not to push the issue under one condition:

“Straight to bed, mister.” She insisted. “No more studying for today. And we’ll see how you feel in the morning.”

And Barry truly did feel better after a solid 9 hours of sleep. A bit queasy and uncomfortable, but thankfully vomit free. So with a little convincing, Henry at last agreed to drive him to the school bright and early, number 2 pencils and a calculator in hand.

“See you in a few hours, kiddo.”

Barry’s lower stomach gave a sharp tug as he climbed out the car, but he ignored it to join the throng of students waiting in the school foyer. There were a couple scattered groups he could have joined, friendly acquaintances cramming in some last minute vocab words, but Barry opted to take up residence by the window. The large sill served as a decent makeshift seat and the cold glass at his back was soothing. He let his eyes fall shut and tried to will away the discomfort.

His reprieve was interrupted by a small tap on his shoulder. But Barry peered through one eye and determined that the interruption was most certainly a welcome one.

“Iris! Hey, Iris. Hey.” He sat up straighter at her smile.

“Hey, yourself. Is there room for one more?”

Barry scooted down the sill so she could plop down beside him. 

“So.” He broached.

“So.” She said back.

“I, uh, haven’t seen you in awhile.”

Iris nudged his shoulder with hers. “You saw me in Chemistry on Thursday, silly.”

Barry tried not to wince. Or puke. His nausea was making a comeback. “Well, I mean, outside of school. I feel like we never get to hang any more.”

“I know.” Iris pouted. “Everything has just been so busy. School. Driver’s Ed. College stuff.”

Barry picked at a hole in his jeans. “Oh. Yeah. I totally get it. Same here, you know. I just...I’ve missed you.”

Iris smiled again. “I’ve missed you, too.”

There was brief silence before Iris chimed back in. “Hey, why don’t we go and see a movie or something after the test? I think that superhero movie is out now. You love that stuff.”

“Yeah?” Barry ventured hopefully. “I mean, yeah. Yeah. That sounds like fun. But, you mean X-men? I thought you hated that stuff.”

Iris shrugged. “It’s growing on me. What do you say? You could come over for dinner after. I know dad’s been missing you too.”

Even though Barry’s stomach threatened to revolt at the mention of food and it would probably mean a long, uncomfortable afternoon, Barry wasn’t about to let the opportunity fly by.

“That sounds great.” He smiled through his pain. “Or, you know, you guys are welcome to dinner at our place, too. Even just for pizza or something.” His stomach groaned at the mere mention. “Get the whole gang together, you know.”

It was worth a shot, but Barry watched as Iris’ face fell. “Oh. Yeah. Maybe. I’d have to ask my dad, though.”

She wouldn’t need to. Barry knew what Joe would say. He’d never say “no” outright. But there would be a convenient excuse. A shift he was picking up at the station. A dinner he was already prepping. Much the same as Barry’s own parents would say if the same invitation was extended to them. 

Baby steps, Barry told himself. The rest will come eventually.

“But definitely on the movie, right?”

Iris’ grin returned. “Definitely.”

Not long after, the test proctors ushered all the students into various classrooms. At opposite ends of the alphabet as they were, Allen and West were shuffled off in opposite directions. Barry almost ached to see her go (his stomach ached too), but he comforted himself with the thought of their movie date that afternoon.

Barry blushed at his own traitorous mind. It wasn’t a _date_ date. Not like _that_. He didn’t--it wasn’t--

Barry sighed to himself. He wanted it to be like _that_. He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t want it to be like _that_. But anything with Iris would never be casual. It couldn’t be. And how could he start something like _that_ knowing full well that it would have a firm expiration date? Answer: he couldn’t. It felt too selfish.

No, Barry would be happy with what they had. It had been good enough for years. Why not 9 more?

He didn’t have much time to dwell on it. The woman at the front of the room was reading out instructions, checking student IDs. Barry realized he was a page behind on the initial paperwork. He shook off his thoughts, silently prayed that his guts would cooperate for just a little while longer, and buckled down for the long haul. 

Only the long haul was starting to feel like a long marathon.Throughout which Barry’s stomach felt worse and worse. His pencil started to shake in his hand as he lifted it from scratch paper to scantron. He broke out in a sweat. Every now and then his insides would clench horribly, somewhere between a heave and a cramp. The questions on the sheet in front of him were little more than a hazy blur. 

“Stop it.” He thought angrily at his digestive track. “Just finish this test. Then movie with Iris. Test then Iris. Test then Iris.” His digestive track did not heed him.

During the break a few students produced granola bars they’d brought for a quick energy boost. Barry’s stomach almost revolted at the sight. He instead joined a small group headed to the bathroom where he splashed water on his face and rested his head on the cool mirror.

A boy at the sink beside him stared. “Hey, man,” he said uncertainly. “You alright?”

Barry could only grunt and wave a half-hearted hand. He was still thinking to himself, “Test then Iris.”

Far too soon the proctor called for their return. Barry groaned. It was a test of will just to move away from the mirror and he very quickly became the last person in the bathroom.

“Test then Iris. Test then Iris.” He was still repeating. He might have been saying it out loud; he couldn’t be sure. Every step towards the door was but a small, baby step. An increasingly heavy hand, shaking and trembling, rose to open the door…

And then Barry knew nothing but blackness.

\--------------------

Barry remembered little about the next 24 hours. He had only a hazy recollection of an ambulance and an exam room. He could not remember precisely when his parents arrived but he remembered his father’s professional calm, his mother’s unrestrained worry. Appendicitis. The doctors said.

There were pokes and prods and needles and the next thing Barry knew he was in surgery. Only the drugs they gave him must have been pretty strong because all of a sudden Cold was in the operating room beside him, brow cocked and lips twisted in a smirk just as Barry remembered him.

“Wha--?” He couldn’t speak. Everything was blurry. Was it a dream?

“Barry, Barry, Barry,” Cold drawled. The room behind them melted into a recovery room. Barry did not remember moving. Cold had not moved either. It was like they’d slipped along a stream and fast forwarded everything but them. Cold continued, “I hope you realize I’m not that easy to shake. You die ahead of schedule and I still get to collect, understand?”

Barry nodded. Or rather he tried to. His head didn’t seem to actually move, but Cold understood all the same.

“Good.” The demon nodded and offered Barry a mock salute. “Take care of yourself now, kid.” Barry thought he saw Cold do something with his hands just at the edge of his hazy vision, but then he was gone and Barry let himself drift away.

\--------------------

When Barry woke (again?) he was in the same recovery room as his dream. Had it been a dream at all? He couldn’t makes heads or tails of anything.

“Hey, kiddo.” A warm voice said.

It took more effort than it should have for Barry to turn and locate the source. His parents were perched at his bedside. 

His _parents_. He hadn’t dreamed that far back then. They were real. Cold was real. The deal was real. Had the mysterious visit been real?

_”You die ahead of schedule I still get to collect…”_

Well, Barry supposed that made sense. Cold had said the body could not survive without the soul. But the reverse was not necessarily true. He’d sold his soul, not his body. If his body was no more it probably just made collecting his soul even easier. So why had Cold warned him…?

His brain hurt. It was too much to think about

“Barry?” Called another warm voice. His mother. His _mother_.

Barry put all thoughts of demons and deals aside and smiled drowsily at his parents.

“Hey.” He croaked. His voice sounded like it had been scraped over sandpaper. His throat felt much the same. 

His mother reached out and brushed his hair back from his forehead. Her hands felt much warmer than they had this morning (yesterday morning? Barry didn’t know). Barry soaked in their warmth, marveled at how wonderful her slender fingers felt on his skin, how very lucky he was. He had years now, years worth of mother’s caresses and smiles.

Eventually though the hands fell away. Barry opened his eyes, though he didn’t remember shutting them. He was about to complain about the loss of touch when he saw why his parents had stopped.

Iris was in the doorway, a bright red “Get Well Soon” balloon bobbing at her side.

“Oh, Iris, sweetie, thank you.” His mother said. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

Iris shrugged. “It’s no big deal. My dad’s got flowers. He’s just parking the car.”

“Ah.” Said Barry’s father. “Well, strictly speaking I think visitors are capped at 3. I doubt they’ll toss us out, but why don’t we go grab a coffee, Nora, and let these two catch up.”

His mother winked at him as they left.

No, Barry thought, now was not the time for matchmaking mothers. Barry sighed. Damn. If only Iris hadn’t said anything. If he could just get Joe in his parents in the room together...

He schooled his face into smile as Iris approached and tied the balloon to the side table. She smiled back.

And then marched right up to the side of the bed and punched him in the shoulder. Lightly.

“Ow! Wha--?”

“ _That’s_ for scaring the crap out of me, jerk.” She punched him lightly again. Barry tried squirm away, but there was only so far one could go in a hospital bed. “And _that’s_ for passing out in the middle of the SATs. I probably failed I was so worried.”

Barry rubbed at his arm. “Sorry.” His words were still raspy. “I’ll have a word with my appendix about next time.”

They both grinned. Then Iris punched him one last time. 

“Seriously? What was that one for?”

“For missing our movie date, silly.”

Barry’s heart leapt and bounded before he desperately reigned it in. She didn’t mean it like he wanted her to. She couldn’t. 

“Sorry.”

Iris smiled. “You’ll make it up to me.” She nudged him with her elbow this time instead of punching him. “Now budge over and make room.”

Barry did as he was told and Iris laid herself down alongside him on the narrow hospital bed, but she tossed her feet up by his head and her head down by his feet, the way they’d once done as children. They used to stare up at the ceiling and talk long into the night. Barry talked about his parents, his latest theories. Iris spoke of the mother she barely remember, her secret desire to be a cop. 

Barry sometimes wished it could be like that again. But he had so many more secrets now, ones he couldn’t share. Not even with Iris.

They were still sprawled like children when Joe entered the room with a bouquet of brightly colored daisies and a raised eyebrow.

“The nurses say you could be sitting like that?” He said with a laugh.

“They never said we couldn’t,” Iris retorted. She gave no indication she planned to move anytime soon. Barry was glad. He liked the weight of her next to him, the soothing warmth that radiated from every point that they touched.

Joe set the flowers down beside the red balloon with an “Uh huh” and a smile, but did not press. “How ya feeling, Barr?”

Barry grunted. “Like hell, but you know, pretty good all things considered.”

“I’ll bet.” Joe made to sit in one of chairs Barry’s parents had vacated and paused. “Where are your folks?”

Barry opened his mouth to answer, was partway through forming the words “Coffee” when Iris abruptly cut him off.

“Oh, they’re just chatting with the doctor. I think Henry knows him. Do all doctor’s know each other?”

Barry frowned. “I-- no that’s not--”

“Hey!” Iris interrupted again. She sat up on her elbows and fixed Barry with a _look_.“You know what would be really great? Hot cocoa. You probably haven’t had much to eat or drink since you woke up, have you Barry?”

“Uh,” Barry was very confused. He wasn’t sure his brain was firing fast enough to interpret Iris’s _look_. “No, I haven’t. What--?”

Iris steam rolled on. “So how about it, dad? Will you get us some? Pleeeeeease.”

Joe chuckled. “I’m not sure cocoa is in line with the doctor’s orders.”

Iris nudged Barry with her foot. From the way that that were laying it ended up cuffing his ear. “Uh,” Iris stared at Barry harder so he finished, “I mean, it’s technically a liquid?”

More laughter from Joe. “Alright, alright. I’ll get you some hot cocoa.” He finally said with a wink. “But if anybody asks you didn’t get it from me.”

As soon as he was gone Barry rounded on Iris. “Iris, what the hell?”

She shushed him and hopped quickly out of the bed.

No, Barry bemoaned to himself. Come back.

But she was only going to the door. Quick as a wink Iris opened the door, left it cracked just an inch or so and then hopped back into the bed, right side up this time. 

Barry felt himself blush. Her face was so close to his. “Iris, what are you doing?”

She sang, “Just waaaait,” and busied herself perusing the small collection of get well cards on Barry’s bedside table. Barry hadn’t even gotten a chance to look himself. “Wow, people sure do work fast.” Iris snatch one that had a kitten with a square, squashed face on the front and looping purple cursive. “Ugh. Of course Becky Cooper sent one. You’re not getting back together with her right? Because _that_ is a disaster waiting to happen.” She passed the card to Barry anyways.

It was simple, unemotional, and the inside revealed only a note that said “Thinking of you in your time of need” neatly signed.

Barry shook his head and Iris picked up another card. She giggled at the next one, “ ‘Germs, like everyone, else find you irresistible.’ Cute.” she flipped it open. “Huh. it’s not signed. Oooooooh, Barry! Secret admirer?” 

Barry snatched it from her hands. “What!? No!” Sure enough it was unsigned...except for three ‘x’ marks. Barry blushed furiously. “Who…?”

Iris shrugged. “You tell me.” She continued to leaf through the remaining collection.

Barry had no idea. It would have to be someone who was at the school for the test to have sent a card so fast, wouldn’t it? That narrowed down to the junior year, but left almost his entire class. Barry didn’t think anyone would have paid him that sort of particular notice. Not since the Becky Cooper debacle. 

Before he could think much further on it Iris smacked his arm and motioned to the open door.

Three voices drifted through.

Barry gasped and spun his head as best he could to stare at Iris. Joe and his parents were _talking_. Actually talking.

“Iris, did you plan this?” All Barry got was a “Shh!.” 

He tried instead to focus on the words from the hall instead. Joe was speaking low, but growing louder as the group drew closer. Then Barry could just make out his mother saying. “--sorry.”

There was a pause. Joe’s voice came through again. “Sorry? Christ, Nora what on Earth for?” Another few sentences were too soft to make and ending with “--me who oughta apologize I--”

Then Barry’s father chimed in. “You can’t change what happened, Joe. And I know how it looked, okay? I don’t blame you for doing your job. I suppose I was just…”

Barry’s mother picked up the train of thought. “We were jealous, Joe.”

“Jealous?”

“Of all those years.” Nora said. “All the time we missed. Sometimes it feels like you know our son better than we ever will. So we were jealous. And selfish I suppose. Wanting to make up for lost time.”

There was a long, _long_ silence in which none of the parents spoke. Barry couldn’t take his eyes off of Iris and she in turn couldn’t keep her eyes off the door. Barry was scared to breath lest he interrupt the discussion outside. 

He couldn’t hear but he could perfectly imagine Joe’s sigh before he finally spoke, “You know I think we’ve all been a bunch of fools.”

Laughter like relief floated in through the gap in the door.

Iris finally turned to look at Barry. They were both grinning ear to ear. 

Barry nudged her. “You didn’t really want hot chocolate, did you?”

Iris nudged back. “Who _doesn’t_ want hot chocolate?”

At long last the three adults came back through the door. Iris, with a grin still plastered on her face bound from the bed to accept the paper tray of drinks from her father. “Thanks, dad!” She took one for herself, placed the other on the side table for Barry and turned back to him with a mischievous wink.

Barry whispered “Evil genius” at her.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder with an elegant flick and gave a minute bow as she mouthed “I know.”

If any of the parents noticed anything amiss they didn’t say. 

“So, Barry,” Joe said. “What do you think? A full recovery by the first famous West BBQ next week? There’s a chili dog with your name on it.”

“Yeah, sounds like a plan.”

The smile still hadn’t faded from Barry’s face. When Joe turned to his parents and said. “Nora? Henry? We’ll see you there?” Barry’s smile grew wider still.

Then Iris turned as they made to leave. "Hey, Barr," she called over her shoulder. "You still owe me a movie, got it mister?"

Barry's grin felt like it would spilt his face as it grew even more. 

Now, he thought. Now everything will be fine.

\--------------------

_The scent of blood filled Mick’s nose with a metallic tang and the thrill of the chase filled his muscles with new fire. His prey was close, still struggling against the inevitable, but inarguably slowing. It wouldn’t be long. Mick could taste death in the air._

_He’d tracked his target far beyond the confines of Central City to a no-questions-asked motel on the outskirts of Starling. One by one the rest of the hunting party had fallen off the trail, but not Mick. He was larger, stronger, faster, more determined--and perhaps a little more deranged--than the other hellhounds. There was never a hunt he didn’t see through to the end. He was the best of the best._

_To be fair, this latest chase had certainly given Mick a run for his money. His prey left a trail of devil’s traps, salt bombs, and goofer dust on his way out of town. The puny human had certainly done his homework._

It won’t matter, in the end. _Mick thought to himself as the scent trail led him to the door at the end of the row. Death claimed all humans. The only variety was the ‘how’. All the effort, the running, the desperation merely confirmed Mick’s highest hopes: this human would go down fighting and kicking and screaming._

_He practically drooled in anticipation._

_The horrendous floral drapes on the motel room’s front window were drawn tightly shut and the door was bolted. No challenge at all for Mick. A few tackles ripped the door right off its hinges. Mick heard his target’s heartbeat quicken just before the sound was swallowed by a loud whirring._

_The human had rigged the door. Yet another wily trap. The wire Mick tripped triggered a pair of industrial fans placed by the closest of the two double beds. The resulting torrent of wind kicked a wave of white powder off of the equally horrendous floral bedspread and into Mick’s face._

_It stung and itched, temporarily blinded him, but in no way stopped Mick’s relentless pursuit._

_He wiped the substance from his eyes and at last spied his prey perched on the edge of the farthest bed, eyes steely and unafraid, a shotgun prepped in his hands. A thick goofer dust circle surrounded both human and bed._

_Even though Mick knew it would be invisible to the human’s eyes, he couldn’t resist flashing a toothy grin as he growled, “Ya think a little salt is gonna save you now? Yer runnin’ outta clever plans.” Mick approached the edge of the circle. Already the cross breeze was beginning to wear away at the greyish powder. “You can’t escape the fires of hell.”_

_The human seemed unphased. “Escape was never part of the ‘clever’ plan.”_

_The sheer confidence in his tone gave Mick pause. He scanned the room, but could find no evidence of a second booby trap._

_The human continued, “I needed to get one of you alone.”_

_The hairs on the back of Mick’s neck bristled. Who was this upshot who presumed to manipulate a hellhound? Another growl rumbled in the back of his throat, “Who said ‘m alone?” The young man on the bed simply nodded towards the floor._

_Mick looked down and almost let out a bark of surprised laughter._

_It seemed the substance the fans pelted him with was not just salt after all. A fine layer of white flour also dusted the entire entryway. Only one set of prints--Mick’s obviously--interrupted the blanket of white on the floor. The mixture also decorated Mick’s upper half, creating a rough, white silhouette that the human could see. Could train a shotgun on._

Huh. _Mick couldn’t help but think._ Clever boy.

_The hellhound growled. “What do you want, kid?”_

_The human lowered the gun just a fraction of an inch. “I want to make a deal.”_

_“I’m not that kind of demon,” Mick said._

_“It’s not that kind of deal,” the human said back._

_For just a moment, Mick paused. He should say no outright. So what if this punk somehow managed to banish his ass back to hell? He’d claw himself back out. He always did. And if Mick didn’t shred him to ribbons, it was only a matter of time before someone else would. The signs of exhaustions were already showing: the dark bruises beneath the eyes, the stale sweat clinging to dusty clothes. But this hunt, this chase. It had been a long time since Mick had found something worth his dogged skill. He was…_ curious _._

_“Alright,” he said with a crooked grin. “ ‘m listening.”_


	6. Pomp and Circumstance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"And now go, and make interesting mistakes, make amazing mistakes, make glorious and fantastic mistakes. Break rules. Leave the world more interesting for your being here." -Neil Gaiman_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the fastest I've every posted a new chapter, woohoo! Blame it on my super boring work conference. Apparently when I'm lonely in a hotel room, the day before my birthday, missing my kitties I write. Go figure.

“Really?” Mick blew out a long stream of smoke.

Cold never did understand his strange fixation on mortal cigarettes. He didn’t dignify the hellhound with a response.

“This has gotta be, what? Five visits? Six?” Another inhale on the cigarette. “In two years?”

Cold raised an eyebrow. “And? I always keep tabs on my debts.”

“Not like this you don’t.” Mick waved a scarred hand out over the sea of people before them: hundreds of the awful meat bags that toted around human souls: expectant parents, students garbed in black robes. None of the humans could see the two of them, of course, but Cold kept to the back of the crowd all the same. “Kid’s not about to rabbit, it’s a fucking graduation.”

From their position in the back of the gymnasium-cum-auditorium Cold could just spy said kid fidgeting nervously in his seat with a few wrinkled pages in his grip.

“And?”

Mick growled. “And fuck all o’ this. Your little obsession has gone far enough.”

“It’s not an obsession, Mick.”

“Bullshit.”

Cold had had enough. He wheeled on the hellhound. “If you have an issue with it _leave_. Take it up with Darhk. See if I give a damn.”

There was fire brimming in Mick’s eyes as he met Cold’s icy glare. But just as fast as the fury rose it dissipated and the rage flickered down to embers.

“I’m no snitch.” Mick said with a huff. “But someone else is gonna start wondering where you get off to.”

“I’m delivering a message.”

Another huff. “Sure you are.”

Cold turned back to the podium, away from Mick and did not look back as he vanished without a trace. 

A man who spoke like he was hiding bees in his mouth was mumbling away. It was impossible to tell from the back of the gym, but he must have announced the valedictorian because there was a round of applause and Barry Allen made his way up to the microphone with his rumpled notes still clutched in his hands.

“H-hi everybody,” he began with a nervous laugh. 

Cold did not laugh at Barry’s self depreciating jokes. Though he might have cracked a small smile. There was an over-arching theme to Barry’s speech. “Time is short. Make the most of it.”

Oh, if only the crowd knew. Then maybe they wouldn’t have applauded with such enthusiasm as Barry made his way back to his seat.

Cold didn’t stay for the reading of the names. He _did_ have a message to deliver. But this wasn’t the venue. Perhaps a house call was in order...

\--------------------

“Holy shit!”

Cold almost sniggered as the kid spun around, arms flailing wildly. In his surprise Barry also managed to trip over the hem of his robe, careen into the desk, and knock over the lamp with a loud bang-crash.

“Ow! Fuck!” He exclaimed again as he grabbed his almost certainly bruised hip and surveyed the carnage. Luckily, it appeared as though nothing was permanently damaged. It was another moment before Barry was able to catch his breath, compose himself, and face the demon reclined on his bed with as much courage as he could muster. “Cold. I-uh-sorry. You startled me.”

Cold raised an eyebrow. “Clearly.” He sat up, still partly propped on the pillows. His feet nearly dangled off the edge of the small twin. “Who knew you had such a mouth on you, kid.”

Barry laughed nervously. “I _did_ go to public school you know.”

“Oh, yes,” Cold deadpanned. “I’m sure you were a regular cussing sailor, Mr. Valedictorian. Nice speech.”

“How did you--? You were--?” Barry started to ask before he shook his head. “Nevermind. Of course you were.”

In the light Len took another look around the room. Barring the usual teenage boy clutter of unwashed socks and underwear, it looked like an image fresh from the pages of a catalog. The drapes coordinated with the bedspread. A telescope stood at the window (studiously aimed at the sky and not through any unsuspecting neighbor’s window). The walls were lined with books and old science projects, interrupted here and there by Star Trek paraphernalia and various tacked up film posters. There was even a large fish tank in the corner, although it stood empty and unused.

The dull trappings of human life, Cold thought to himself. He was almost disappointed his little pet project had no juicier secrets tucked away in the relative privacy of his childhood bedroom. Cold doubted he’d find so much as a clipping from a porno mag or a even a joint.

When his gaze returned to Barry, the kid was fidgeting nervously with his Honors Society cords. “Something on your mind, kid?”

“No!” Barry responded quickly. “I mean--” his voice was unsteady and quiet--too quiet. It was a far cry from the confident if rambling speech he’d delivered mere hours ago. “I--it’s only been a couple years. What are you doing here?” He chewed viciously on his bottom lip.

For a brief moment, Cold worried that he’d taken it too far, ambushing Barry in his bedroom. He’d clearly spooked the kid, perhaps it would be best to back off. Cold shook that ridiculous emotion away even as he swung his feet around to sit himself upright on the side of the bed, assuming a less intimidating posture. He wasn’t concerned for his _prey’s_ fragile human _feelings_. He reasoned that he simply didn’t want to spook the kid so much that he rabbited. As fun as the chase could be, hellhounds were far messier than Cold preferred. That was all.

“Relax, Barry.” Cold practically purred. “I’m not here to collect.” He heard Barry’s small sigh of relief. “Just keeping tabs. At this stage in life I usually have to remind my charges that moving halfway around the world won’t stop me from finding them. Although judging by what you said in your little speech, I’m guessing that won’t be a problem with you. Off to CentralU? Really? Brain like yours could get you anywhere.”

He tilted his head towards Barry, angling for an explanation. Barry simply shrugged.

“What?” Cold pressed. “Didn’t want to leave mummy and daddy’s prying eyes? No wild college adventures in store for Barry Allen?”

Barry shrugged again. “I’ll still be living on campus, getting the whole ‘college experience’, you know? It’s just--why not? Why not stay in Central City? I like it here. CCU has the program I want. I got a full ride. Makes things a little easier for my parents.”

Cold resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Jeez, kid. You ever make any decision, or even do anything ever just to be selfish? Most people in your boat would be off blowing their life savings on--oh, I don’t know--a crazy cross-European tour. Or a car. Something more exciting.”

Barry bristled and folded his arms across his chest. “Everybody’s got their own priorities, I guess. And I’m, _not_ a kid.” Cold chuckled softly at his indignance, the stubborn line of his frown. “Besides,” Barry continued defiantly, “it’s not entirely selfless. I’ve got things I want to do. CCU has a fantastic forensics program. And if I do the internship with Joe at the CCPD I’ll have a job waiting for me when I get out.”

“A job? Seriously, kid, you’ve got less than a decade and _that’s_ what you want to do with--”

“YES!” Barry shouted at last. “And I’m not a kid!”

Cold suppressed any expression of surprise. Barry Allen had guts. Cold could respect that.

~~The kid~~ Barry looked just as startled at his outburst, but he quickly recovered. He uncrossed his arms only to curl his hands into fists at his sides. “I know what I want.” He finished stubbornly.

Cold lifted a single brow. “Apparently.” His gaze swept over, not the room again, but the young man in front of him.

And he really was a young man. Barry Allen certainly wasn’t that same, desperate fifteen year old Cold met at the crossroads those years ago. There was something more...settled about him. Something in the clarity of his eyes, the set of the shoulders he’d started growing into. Something even more in that open face, still faintly speckled with a splattering of freckles and moles. Something that said he was resigned to his fate, but wasn’t about to go gentle into that good night.

It made something stir in the pit of Cold’s gut. It felt like bubbles. Or butterflies. Maybe it was something he ate. Maybe it was this strange young man before him.

Including Barry, Cold could count on one hand the number of humans who had shouldered their debt with such grace and resolve. Including Barry, Cold could count on one finger the number of times those humans had affected him to such a degree.

Cold ignored the sensation and implication. “So tell me...Barry.” He stood up from the bed, but kept his stance unaggressive, arms loose and wrists crossed loosely behind him. “What is it that you want?”

When Barry’s only response was to frown, Cold clarified, “Not for another deal. Call me curious.”

Barry snorted. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you curiosity killed the cat?”

The bark of laughter that slipped out of his mouth surprised even Cold. “Ah, common misconception. Everybody always forgets the second part: but satisfaction--”

“--brought it back. Yeah, yeah, I know.” Barry sighed, but seemed to lose most of the tension in his limbs. “I _want_ to go to CCU, okay? I _want_ to study forensics and I _want_ to work for the CCPD because...I _want_ to catch the man in the lightning.”

There was no hiding the surprise on Cold’s face this time. “Still? You have your mother back, your father’s already out of prison.”

“Still.” Barry nodded, determinedly. “I don’t know who this guy is. What he wanted. Why he did what he did. I don’t know if he’s going to try to do it again now that my mom is back. You said you couldn’t catch him for me, so I’m going to to do it myself.”

~~The kid~~ Barry was certainly full of surprises. “Do I detect a hint of resentment there?” Cold teased. “Wouldn’t want a dissatisfied customer.”

“What? No.” Barry shook his head adamantly. “God, no.”

“What have I said, Barry? No need to bring God into it. Don’t think he’d approve.”

Barry laughed. Cold could get used to that sound. “Okay, fair enough. Anyways, no. I’m perfectly satisfied. This is--what you did--it’s more than I could’ve ever dreamed of. I just--I want to make sure, that once I’m...once I’m gone. I want to make sure that my parents are safe.”

Cold almost flinched. That wish, that desire. It was so very familiar. He flashed back on a halo of blonde curls, an upturned face with a cheerful smile. Ice skates.

Once again Cold shoved those intrusive thoughts away. He needed to get out of this dreadful human world. It was playing tricks on his mind.

He gave a short huff. “What’d I tell you, Barry? Not a selfish bone in that body of yours.”

Barry just shrugged again and slouched into desk chair. “Is it entirely selfless if I’m also doing it to help me sleep at night? Knowing one day that I’m going to leave them behind.” That expressive face of his twisted into a solemn frown. “I’ve been left behind. It’s not--well, it’s not fun. I just want to make it as easy for them as possible. Keep them safe.”

Again Cold resisted the visceral reaction, the rabid clawing of guilt. 

Guilt. When was the last time he’d felt that?

“Wow.” He snarked. “How utterly greedy can you be, Barry Allen? I’ll have to save you a seat down in the depths of hell with me and the rest of the demons. You’ll fit right in. Scrooges, the lot of us.”

Barry hmmed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I dunno about that.”

“Don’t worry, Barry. I won’t let anyone bully you for your lunch money.”

“No, that’s not it.” Barry leaned forward. “It’s just...I don’t think you crossroads demons are all that bad.”

Cold let out a sharp, “Ha!” But Barry just stared at him with those earnest, green eyes. “Wait, you’re serious?” Barry nodded. “Okay, this I’ve got to hear. I could do with a good laugh. How do you figure?”

Barry was absent-mindedly spinning the desk chair in half circles as he searched for the right words, “I dunno, it’s just--it’s like--It’s like when Joe talks about some of the real nutjobs they arrest at the station every now and then.”

Cold’s brow crept towards his hairline incredulously, but he indicated that Barry should continue.

“Some of the worst ones, they like to blame other people, voices in their heads, whatever. The most desperate ones, well, they like to say the devil made them do it.”

Cold rolled his eyes. “Please. As if the devil would ever stoop so low.”

“I know.” Barry continued, “Joe used to tell me and Iris it was bullshit, too. He used to say, ‘The devil doesn’t make anyone do anything, he’s just the one dishing out the consequences. All the real evil in this world is people.’” Cold was stunned into silence when Barry’s eyes met his.

“The devil didn’t _make_ me take that deal, Cold. And neither did you. Hell, _I_ called you. And I’m not stupid. I know the consequences. But just a few hours ago both my parents watched me graduate. And now I get to go downstairs and eat cake with them, take cheesy pictures with them, hug them. That is worth everything to me. And it’s all thanks to you. So, yeah. I’d say you’re not bad at all.”

For a long while Cold said nothing at all. When he was finally able to form words he tried to make them as biting as possible, but he failed profoundly. “Yeah? Well, enjoy it while you can. It wasn’t free.”

Barry nodded and said simply, “I know. So you keep saying.”

More silence passed between them.

It was finally broken when Nora Allen called up the stairs. “Barry? Your guests are arriving!”

Barry looked down and Cold felt as though he’d been released from a spell. “Guess I better get back.” He stood and removed the black graduation robe. Cold had almost forgotten that was what he came up for in the first place. Barry let it fall unceremoniously to the floor. Underneath he wore a plain, but neatly pressed dress shirt and khaki pants. He unbuttoned his collar, ditched the tie, and reached up to artfully ruffle his hair.

“What do you think?” He said to Cold almost jokingly. “Presentable?”

Cold’s voice was still unnaturally quiet when he answered, “Sure, kid.” Barry didn’t berate him for the endearment this time.

Barry shuffled awkwardly toward the hall. “I-uh-take it you can find your way out?”

Barry was halfway through the doorway when Cold finally found his voice. Once again, as he seemed wont to do around Barry Allen, Cold was speaking before he’d even thought. “Wait.”

Barry spun on his heels.

“Before you go,” What the hell was he doing? “I almost forgot to give you your graduation present.”

This time Barry’s eyebrows lifted toward the ceiling. “I--what?”

“Your present.” Cold was thinking on his feet here, which he was _not_ fond of, but he waved his hand and a box, almost too big to fit through the door appeared next to the empty fish tank. “Sorry, didn’t have time to wrap it.”

It was a rather expensive, state of the art, portable air conditioning unit.

Cold could sense Barry’s confusion so he clarified, “To keep you cool in hell.” For a moment Barry’s face blanched. “And by hell I mean that piss poor excuse CCU has for student housing.” Barry’s horror quickly morphed into full, stomach-clutching laughter. Yes, Cold could get used to that sound indeed. He couldn’t help but smile, genuinely, if only for a moment. But by the time Barry had recovered and wiped away the tears at the corner of his eyes, the expression was gone.

He eyed Cold with mock suspicion, “And what’s it gonna cost me?”

Thinking on his feet again Cold quickly responded. “Oh, not a thing. Think of it as an amendment to our original agreement. Although…” The demon slunk closer to Barry, barely a foot away. “Seeing as it would alter the terms, both parties would have to agree. Do you accept these new terms, Barry Allen?” He leaned closer.

Barry’s eyes were wide, dilated. His breathing quickened although with his heartbeat. For once Cold hoped it was not with fear. “I--uh-- _yes_?” The young man squeaked.

“Well then,” Cold brought his face mere inches from Barry’s, cupped his chin in his right hand, but did not pull. “You know what you have to do to seal the deal, don’t you?” He breathed.

Then he waited, hovering. They both puffed out shallow breaths that mingled and tickled their lips. The waiting dragged on so long Cold thought Barry might pull away, but at last Barry lightly licked his lips and closed the gap.

The kid had improved since last time. Cold brushed away any implications that such progress meant that Barry had been _practicing_ with someone. This kiss was also no perfunctory peck. Barry pressed into it with the same earnestness he applied to everything else. Cold responded in turn and added just one light nip to Barry’s lower lip which elicited a sharp gasp.

Cold was sorely tempted to explore the brief opening the small sound provided, and he was not one who resisted such temptations well, but before he could another call came up the stairs. Iris this time. “Barry! Are you coming down or what?” Her steps on the stairs soon echoed after.

Barry pulled away abruptly, gave Cold one last startled look, and the dashed into the hall to intercept the ill-timed interruption.

“Iris! Hey, Iris. Hey!”

When Cold found himself chuckling fondly he stopped and frowned.

Regardless of these pesky human emotions, Cold realized he’d learned a great deal on this particular visit. The way he figured, this whole affair was going to end one of two ways: Barry Allen’s beautiful soul at his side in hell, battered and broken but reformed and remade into something almost unrecognizable; or Barry Allen, defiant to the last, suffering eternal at the hands of hell’s worst, and yet still refusing to concede, to transform as all demons did. One of these was spectacular and one wasn’t. As Cold had come to realize, he no longer knew which was which.

Mick was right.

Angry at himself and at the way ~~this boy~~ Barry had somehow wriggled underneath his skin Cold exhaled roughly with a sharp, “ _Fuck_.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on tumblr! I'm [LadyOrpheus](http://ladyorpheus.tumblr.com) there as well!


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